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
