This morning there is a smorgasbord of administration awaiting me at my desk. Sipping my last drops of coffee, one foot in the world of strategy and one in a forest of spider's webs, the sparkly raindrops win the toss and the wellies are on. Galaxies of web threads and universes of morning dewdrops blanket everything. It's only on these moist . . .
He gathers windfalls and leaves them on the white washed gate post. I used to think it was an invitation to help yourself. Now I know it's a stash he's keeps for the horses. As the evening sun sparkles on the lake, he takes a few in his pocket and wanders down towards the waterside field. I was there tonight and . . .
Her little bed of roses
In her garden it's the sweet perfume that I remember. Her little bed of roses. She broke her back in a car accident in the 1930's and was bent over and frail. We used to laugh saying she was so wrinkled that her wrinkles had wrinkles. She was strict and made us eat things we didn't like, but . . .
“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves”
"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves" from the Wild Geese by Mary Oliver With thanks to Grace . . .
~ In the bluebell wood ~
It's quiet here and in spite of the proximity to the road, it remains wild. Darker than usual, fresh leaves block the sky. At dusk the light fliters through at a rakish angle making long shadows and spotlighting the little blue flowers I have come to see.To get to the woods I have to hop a few walls and climb down . . .
~ How to be a photographer ~
At first light, let the sounds and colours of the morning enter you. Rise when the animals take breakfast. Over coffee keep a steady hand on a long lens, chaffinches might be dropping by. Or go out into the frosty dawn, well wrapped up and remember your key this time! At the peak of the day open the kitchen door and watch . . .
Windswept, freckly and fairly wrinkly
While I am standing beneath this Sycamore, besotted with its golden glow, leaves are passing away in front of my eyes. A little death is taking place as each one turns, decays and falls. Autumn and it's peaceful slowing brings the inevitable truth to mind. The wrinkling up of my smily eyes like a crisping leaf, curling and fraying at . . .
The stillness of a meditating Hare
It's 10 years ago, our first night in the new house and I can't sleep for excitement. It is such a quiet spot and all I can hear is the sound of the endless silence ringing in my ears. I can't stop myself listening and trying to hear something I can recognise. But in no time I am hearing things that are not there at . . .
Alone with my thoughts
On a small strip of land between the sea and the wall of the house, this beautiful horse has been casually grazing. He is a constant presence and from the house can be seen peeping up over the stone wall, his dappled coat blending in perfectly with the misty landscape.If ever an animal or a scene was . . .
Mushrooms, ecology, death.
Out of the blue last week I got a tweet about a link to "mushroom/eco/death." The whole thing looked so weird that the thought it might be some kind of twitter virus . . .