This is what I see first thing in the morning, the quietness of the graves always makes me stop and contemplate the old church sturdy through the centuries, the dark green of the yews, there is a photo of them as young babes planted at the beginning of the 20th century. The leaves on the trees getting thinner by the day. When I get up in the dark, the robin greets me with a burst of song, there are two in the garden, occasionally bickering, bossing the other birds about. The little wrens low to the ground follow the line of the church wall, in and out of the wooden frames always hunting for tiny insects. Occasionally birds, either the sparrows or blue tits get caught in the hen's run and have to be let out. We seem to have an invasion of ladybirds, they come into the house, foreigners says Paul! but I reckon they just want some warmth. I remember butterflies in the old house, camping out the winter in the wardrobe, fluttering against the window when the sun streamed through.
|snapdragons holding on|
|there is something graceful about the branches of the sycamore as their leaves gently reveal their bones|
A few days ago I sent some knitted stuff off for Knit for Peace, and got a rather nice letter back from them with this little booklet of charity appeals to give out for Xmas. Perhaps I shall leave it out for family to contemplate. rather like the three fine chickens to be given to African war widows, if they feed them well they should have plenty of eggs.
And here is Macfarlane's small poem of praise to the wren.
When wren whirrs from stone to furze the world around
her slows, for wren is quick, so quick she blurs the air
through which she flows, yes -
Rapid wren is needle, rapid wren is pin - and wren's song
is sharp-song, briar-song, thorn-song, and sren's flight
is dart-flight, flick fight, light-flight, yes -
Each wren etches. stitches, switches, glitches, yes -
Now you think you see wren, now you know you don't.