Late this eve after a wet Sunday, it was meant to be a brisk run around but as ever I get sucked in. The cuckoo flowers draw me to their sites and I get low with the ducks.
I visit the place where IF and some FotG have been this morning mopping up oil spills with newspapers, they filled 5 bags of bottles and sodden papers and there is now a window in the oily film by the cuckoo flower. The birdsong was vibrant at this hour over the ponds and in the trees
I see the space above the podium where I and others have stood next to the hollowed out and still surviving Rowan carrying the widening initials in her bark, the evidence of the oyster mushrooms still there for those who knew it was, a cluster of new leaves sprouting from a node close by. A good omen for an inviting pedestal.
I follow the river down stream and I linger at the gatepost of the engineer’s residence listening to the birds here and the water coming towards me from the east and rushing away to the west
Buttercups and 3 cornered leek make constellations in the dark
At the hatch the sun is setting in the bowl of the Glen valley, and the pink is offering a new beginning for this old place. The alders are watchful and there are old habits here, ritual offerings of car parts, a bumper. The gorse cascades down the sandstone on the other side, still bright in the fading light.
I come home quickly, slightly spooked by the descending night – it’s half past 10 and once again I wonder where the time went