Sunday - 11th June

nepeta tumbles with a perennial geranium, plenty of bees for these two plants.

All is quiet for the time being, a walk down the lane yesterday amongst the flowering grasses,  do grasses flower I wonder they seed anyway? a soft haze of gentle creams, browns and buff.  The hedgerow sporting the delicate wild roses and seemingly hundreds of chattering sparrows.  Icing on the cake was the barn owl floating back and forward on the 'wild' strip of land that edges the field.  Barn owls can't hunt in rain, it soaks their feathers, so that is why you see them hunting in daylight.  She hovered, swooped, landed in the grass succesful in her hunting.

The people who own the farm and fields cherish the barn owls, for which we should be eternally grateful, the farmer has even seen otter in the river.  Unfortunately no camera, though the eye captures the moment.

A poem by Duffy, not sure if she is still poet laureate, she captures the moment of  the defeat of TM by the young vote which rallied the thinking of these times.  As Giles Coren said, the winner has lost and the loser has won in this campaign - who would have thought it ;)

Campaign a poem by Carol Ann Duffy

In which her body was a question-mark

querying her lies; her mouth a ballot-box that bit the hand that fed. Her eyes? They swivelled for a jackpot win. Her heart was a stolen purse;

her rhetoric an empty vicarage, the windows smashed.

Then her feet grew sharp stilettos, awkward.

Then she had balls, believe it.

When she woke,

her nose was bloody, difficult.

The furious young

ran towards her through the fields of wheat.