“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash . . .
"Buy flowers – or if you are poor, steal one from someone’s garden; the world owes you that much at least: blossom – and put them at the end of the bed. When you wake, look at it, and tell yourself you are the kind of person who . . .
Blackbirds with their confident perching seem to have it all sussed. They are gorging on our black currants flying over and back across the garden as if they own the place. The speckled hen blackbirds are a rarer sight. I'm not sure why. Are they shy? Maybe they are just so busy feeding . . .
She began to bellow just before 3.30 AM. There's a hill of blazing gorse to the east and she had gotten herself up on the top of that hill to give birth. My son came running downstairs, "Is she dying?" Quite the opposite, it was another new life. The awful sound of . . .
We had just arrived in Northern Brittany. Our first stop was to be a field on the edge of the Ile Callot. You get there by crossing a causeway at low tide. When the tide returns and the day trippers go home, there are only a few occupied houses and the wilderness left. And ourselves of . . .
Early morning light at it's best with sprinklings of frosty dew drops. From my window I won't miss a thing that moves or changes. Small birds hang around on the willows, waiting for the breakfast I will serve them shortly. I've noticed the February sunrise is at the perfect angle. The . . .
She is centre stage. Claiming her space amongst the other small birds, gritty and determined. Her tiny feathers are ruffled from the sheer speed of her arrival. And in seconds she is gone. I am watching her and mulling over my word for 2017. I notice the thumping of . . .
Amidst the bizarreness of the current world, I went off as happy as you like to replace my ten year driving licence which had finally expired. It's a funny experience, the Driving Licence Centre, like a cross between going to the doctor and being in custody . You sit in a small booth with . . .
It is summer. Maybe it rains a bit too much, maybe it's been too cold to swim recently. But the flowering in the wild garden goes on regardless. "Weeds" as they are sometimes called, wrap themselves around bushes and bulbs. The whole exuberant over the top lushness of it will be short . . .
Everything is lush; the lane is coming into the best part of the year. I am besotted with green, tiny buds coming into flower, light as it illuminates petals and unfurling leaves. I wonder sometimes how nature can survive our bleak winters and the onslaught of chemicals and factory . . .