Starting My Day

Opening the back door, I stepped out into the cool September morning air. With the

first draught of fresh air filling my lungs, I revelled in its intoxicating flavour, and

helped myself to another lungful for good measure.

Mounting the four brick steps up to garden level, I noted that the paving slabs were dry this morning, although there was a heavy dew on the slightly unkempt mossy lawn, and the cobwebs that laced the teasel heads together were hung with tiny crystal droplets like a fine diamond necklace designed by and for Mother Nature herself, the weight of the droplets pulling the long threads downward in a perfect catenary curve, one of natures mathematical wonders.

Bright Phoebe was already climbing heavenward on the rungs of her invisible arched

ladder and had dispelled the early morning mist that there obviously had been, and was now glimmering through the leaves of the Ash tree at the end of the garden, causing a flickering dappled light to play across most of the garden, which, coupled with the absolute clarity of the air now, gave one the feeling that all was well with this day.

 A light breeze raised the hair on my uncovered legs, for I was still in my dressing

gown, and I felt as if a ghostly cat had just brushed past me on it's way into the house

for food. I shivered lightly, a just reaction to that feeling, but thought little more

about it.

Taking a sip from my coffee mug, my thoughts turned inward to reflect on what this

day might bring; what good fortune the Universe would provide for me, for it was all

there for the asking; all there to be enjoyed.

Setting my coffee mug on the mesh-topped patio table, I looked up, and my breath was stolen by the formation of clouds that was stretched thin across the sky. The mares' tails looked like dry white brush strokes dashed in straight lines but with a wind-blown curl at the eastern end. The washed out vapour trails told of a multiplicity of journeys passing over this country. Off to the North, a patch of Mackerel sky added another texture to the painting. I slowly turned full circle, taking in the heavenly sight that this pristine morning presented to me; the delicate white lace on cyan background stretched high above me, and as far as the eye could see.

I was truly grateful that I lived in open country, where no tall buildings could hem me in, for it is then, without nature’s constant reminders, that one can become forgetful of the truth of life, and become completely embroiled in the culture of Self, with it’s adherents - loneliness, and discontent.

Turning round once more, I took in everything that I could see, slowly absorbing every colour, and every shade of every colour, from the multitude of greens that gave each of the trees their own identity, to the misplaced earthy terra-cotta of the pantiled roof, each tile of which had its own patch of discolouration from the dust and soot that the rains had washed down the rounded valleys of the vertical rows.

The flower gardens were now past their best, with only the stragglers of the late perennials still in bloom, but it had been a magnificent show, considering the extremes of weather that we had experienced this year; very warm very early in the year, then the wettest second quarter on record. Haymaking was difficult, to say the least, and lucky was the farmer who got some good grass in store. Then the harvest weather had been dismal to begin with, brightening later, but by that time, the crops were in very poor heart, with the grains empty and shrivelled.

The fruit trees around the garden were very variable in crop, as there were a couple of wicked air-frosts around blossoming time. Only the later blossoming trees bore fruit, and that in abundance, Cox and Russet apples a-plenty, but pears, plums, gages, none; but the peach, the heavenly peach,  against the Southern workshop wall held out against the frost, and produced half its normal crop, but still plenty of juice to dribble down my chin.

The Wisteria, which graced the Southern and Eastern walls of the house, took the frost very badly, and the flower buds, which were on the point of opening, turned to rotten pulp and dropped off, allowing me to think that she would not survive another year, but nature having her own mind, gave her a second petticoat of flowers in the late Summer; not the usual magnificent show of pendulous pale blue blooms, for by now, there was a very heavy growth of leaves, which wouldn’t normally be there at flowering time, and the blooms had to fight their way out of the foliage.  This was the chosen home for a second clutch of Blackbird’s eggs, the products of which were now scuttling around the garden, turning leaves and wood-chips in their hunt for food.

Breathing a sigh that belied the smile on my face, and quietly thanking the Universe, I turned back, picked up my mug, and took the steps down to the house, where I would prepare myself for the day ahead.

 © Rob King 06-09-2012