Catkins, cast adrift from willows by gusting draughts, litter the garden. The grass looks as if plagued by woolly, dusty caterpillars that have emerged from below. The week’s washing flaps and tugs on the line.
The wind has turned to the east. It bites at the skin and catches in the throat.
Today the Spring Equinox has passed and the Sun’s steady climb towards its zenith is celebrated by the arrival of goldfinches bowling in on the chill blow. They chirrup soft songs to each other beneath the raucous complaints of their rowing neighbours.
Blackbirds ruffled by the blustery conditions contest territory. Vicious attacks continue in ignorance of my presence.
On the salt marshes waders lie low. Flight into, across or down wind is difficult. Jerky movements with scooped wings in attempts to control flight, suggest the waterfowl are string-manipulated puppets; uncertainly staggering through the air.
On the great expanse of shingle the German Sea crashes in. Dirty brown rollers maned with white crests are topped-off by the crosswind. Further out, where the water sparkles blue, the triple-bladed wind turbines are shining in the brilliant sunlight. The massive propellors churn relentlessly, feeding the grid.
We spoke this morning. Both in dazzling sunlight, despite being hundreds of kilometres apart.
The distance between us is as nothing. I half-expect to hear you knock at the door.
“Is the kettle on?” you chance.
“Of course! Come in.”
Immersed in work online while your day with formal interaction progresses from tense to harrowing.
Here grey, gloomy sky with occasional rain.
I empty the compost bin into the black plastic Dalek composter that is alive with a tangle of fine, writhing, pink worms.
Night comes early. Good night wishes exchanged by text.
Do you mind if I…
The attractive young woman began
Moving to my side
Touching the nape of neck
Checking me over
Touching my ear
Rearranging a little silver-white curl on my crown
…if I photograph your hair?
I think it’s beautiful
After taking a few photographs
From different angles
She turned to her phone, smiled
“That will be ten pounds, please”
That’s a fair price for a haircut
I paid, happy as a show lamb
(And we all knows what happens to boy lambs don’t we’s?
There’re the first to leave the farm)
Sunday’s streets mostly silent
I hear the leathery leaf of a plane tree fall
Now Saturday’s night is done
This is how life used to be
A day of rest, officially
When even clocks seem to pause
But Metro lines, buses and trams
Still running efficiently
Over the viaduct a TGV rolls
A slow start
This is a time to breathe
A gentle stroll
City parks, the river promenades
Come into their own
The carousel yet to turn
Boulouger rises early
Flower stalls bloom
A street market unwraps
Churches’ heavy doors let in light
Let out dust and gloom
Street cleaner already vacuuming
While dog walkers stoop
Still having to pick up the mess
Their dogs don’t get Sundays
n.b. Yes, the old clock wasn’t working. It was 08:00h when I took the photo.
Two Devon Reds
Hesitate at the trailer ramp
Roughly littered with straw.
They walked together from the field
Exhaling clouds to the chilly dawn
After the heavy rain of night.
Have they realised
The pasture is behind them
A vet is waiting
The abattoir is open for business?