Dark quickens to overcome the light, the seasons are part of a natural cycle dependent on the sun. I wake up to hear Lucy's gentle snoring as she slumbers on her mat in the hallway. Of late I have woken up on sad dreams, having to haul myself out of a sense of melancholia, switch on lights, make tea.
But as the light appears in the natural world, soft mists over the fields rise, the peachy glow of the sun rising through the copse, nature has set out to enchant once more. Yorkshire Pudding talks of grouse and I remember the trips over the moor, the moment of sheer delight as several baby grouse ran across the grassed lane and huddled against the old stone wall their mother anxiously following. The harebells so aptly named as their fragile beauty of pale blue nods in the breeze by the side of the road. Yet I cannot go there without my heart breaking.
The balls of fluff, tiny red grouse, will grow, wander around the moors and then the heavy machinery of beaters and guns will bear down, the grouse will rise and the bullets will follow. Its the f****** economy says our rather precarious prime minister, yes he is starting to rock gently over, hypocrisy is not a good road to take . Who the hell voted for him in the first place? God preserve us from the news.
Quotes taken from Ted Hughes - Grouse.
|Long line of grouse hides|
And so I finish on a happier note!!