"No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” Virginia Woolf
Chelmsford River, fringed by meadowsweet, the good days of summer, spikes of yellow irises, bulrushes and that mess of green exuberance that tells of nature's bounty. And of course, the green slime that collects on top and the baby dabchick that can just about walk on it.
The luxuriant fall of a wayward hawthorn allowed to grow treelike. Its blossoms cascade down promising fruit for the Autumn.
Solva harbour when the tide is out. The blackness of the rock, covered in seaweed and molluscs.
Yesterday I listened to Macfarlane's Landmarks, it is a mixture of glossaries of local words for the infinite changing landscape and chapters on writers. Yesterday it was Roger Deakins and wild swimming. But also he mentioned Autumn Richardson and Richard Skelton, the word Autumn passed through my mind, an instance of recognition. But it only came to me this morning - The Last Wolf. The story I had found in their book 'Reliquiae' in their Corbel Press
Though perhaps their offerings of prose and poems left me somewhat slightly dull of mind, but on reading a blog on Virginia Woolf once more she puts another thought down on page......
"the eyes of others are our prison; their thoughts our cages"