Rooks are flying above and calling with a strange soft sound.
A sound escapes from me as I stretch my arms up towards them.
"I can never read in summer out-of-doors. Though in shadow the bright light fills it, summer shadows are broadest daylight. The page is so white and hard, the letters so very black, the meaning and drift not quite intelligible, because neither eye nor mind will dwell upon it. Human thoughts and imaginings written down are pale and feeble in bright summer light. The eye wanders away, and rests more lovingly on greensward and green lime leaves. The mind wanders yet deeper and farther into the dreamy mystery of the azure sky. Once now and then, determined to write down that mystery and delicious sense while actually in it, I have brought out table and ink and paper, and sat there in the midst of the summer day. Three words, and where is the thought? Gone. The paper is so obviously paper, the ink so evidently ink, the pen so stiff; all so inadequate. You want colour, flexibility, light, sweet low sound—all these to paint it and play it in music, at the same time you want something that will answer to and record in one touch the strong throb of life and the thought, or feeling, or whatever it is that goes out into the earth and sky and space, endless as a beam of light.”
The Life of the Fields, Richard Jeffries
Sunday morning, an early walk through morning mist.
My mind misty too. A long swipe up my arm from a singing nettle.
I happened upon the circular rose gardens in the war memorial gardens.
Alone with the blackbirds, I took in ten thousand, dew-covered, waiting roses.
Pink and cream, peach and pink, raspberry red.
Around the edge grew herbs and poppies.
Completely alone. The sun cleared the mist.
I’ve been mentally composing a suicide note all week.
This Sunday morning gift made me grateful for all life.
There are walks that are boring, ordinary, aggravating.
And there are walks which bring revelation, walks which can save your life.
I could tell you about the river, or we could just get in.
I walked along the river today. I saw a freshwater sponge and an otter slide.
I got into a secret garden. Okay, it’s not a secret, but it’s usually locked.
How good it was to be inside the locked garden at last.
I saw (and smelt) a common stinkhorn (phallus impudicus).
You would’ve loved it.
Convolvulus will climb anything it can get a tendril around
then flow like a waterfall over and down and down
I don’t know what I’m living for
My Bright Abyss, Christian Wiman
Pin feather in the woods. Rowan berries are hanging heavily.
How I Go to the Woods
Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible, I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.
The downs illustrate my thoughts.
We all miss the skies of our home.
Today I was walking at a height, in a built up area.
Occasionally a street or a break between houses revealed a great view.
It felt like those small, rare moments in life - moments of clarity.
Filthy from camping, scratched from brambles, stained from plums.
September is a month you can hold in your hands.
Ted Hughes on Emily Dickinson:
"This theory supposes that the eruption of her imagination and poetry followed when she shifted her passion, with the energy of desperation, from this lost man onto his only possible substitute — the entire Universe in its Divine aspect.”
the entire universe in its divine aspect
This cat was the best cat.
Cat watched me as I dressed, read, undressed, slept.
Cat sat with me on the bed as I cried and cried.
Cat was a street cat so knew about tough times.
Cat emailed me some meows after I moved to Ireland.
I am sorry not to have been there at the end.
And then I had the wish for wings, Arthur Beckett
That desire which we all have at times for wings, WH Hudson
And I will get blackberries on my way home. Autumn is no time for books.
Sunday, 6am. I walked through long wet grass with the intention of cleaning the mud from my boots, and after that was done, to keep walking for as long as it felt good. I saw crane flies.
I mean, I saw hundreds of crane flies. Hundreds of crane flies clambering through the grass.