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Rockhollow Series: May, come in
Weather: Heavy raincloud, spitting rain only late afternoon, very little breeze, humid.
Plant of the day: White bells
Animal sighting of the day: Chaffinch
Rockhollow Series: May, come in
I saw a chaffinch today, flit from a hazel,
above the bed of the stream
to a fallen branch on the other side -
In Britain that's nothing fresh
but for 'Hollow it is.
His red and blue markings were made brighter
beneath the weighted cloud, the lack of Sun
and his head was tilted slightly as if more clockwork than live.
My daughter identified him as 'Robin'
for why wouldn't she? Soon after she demanded to see a Seagull.
We carried on our way, navigating the reserve beyond dear 'Hollow -
our extended sacred place,
post slide,
post bridge,
post carved crab and steps and swing
to a space where
white bells were playing sardines.
Beneath a bowing Oak,
across from a wild Yarrow of some kind playing the same game in their own stolen plot,
Fern charged amongst them,
the scented filling my nostrils as wild garlic might, though I assure you
it was not.
Tired we wander back to our owned land, unlock the gate - greeting the Solanum and carved wooden man on our way. We check on the tadpoles, the hedgehog, the wormery,
admire hostas shooting daggers from earth,
alliums proudly standing readying their pop of prolific purple
and then
in comes the rain,
soft
as only humid afternoon rain can be,
the sky broken and singing praise
with every beat
on petal and leaf.
Fern demands to be dry,
it's no longer a pleasure -
but for 'Hollow it is.
Plant of the day: White bells
Animal sighting of the day: Chaffinch
Rockhollow Series: May, come in
I saw a chaffinch today, flit from a hazel,
above the bed of the stream
to a fallen branch on the other side -
In Britain that's nothing fresh
but for 'Hollow it is.
His red and blue markings were made brighter
beneath the weighted cloud, the lack of Sun
and his head was tilted slightly as if more clockwork than live.
My daughter identified him as 'Robin'
for why wouldn't she? Soon after she demanded to see a Seagull.
We carried on our way, navigating the reserve beyond dear 'Hollow -
our extended sacred place,
post slide,
post bridge,
post carved crab and steps and swing
to a space where
white bells were playing sardines.
Beneath a bowing Oak,
across from a wild Yarrow of some kind playing the same game in their own stolen plot,
Fern charged amongst them,
the scented filling my nostrils as wild garlic might, though I assure you
it was not.
Tired we wander back to our owned land, unlock the gate - greeting the Solanum and carved wooden man on our way. We check on the tadpoles, the hedgehog, the wormery,
admire hostas shooting daggers from earth,
alliums proudly standing readying their pop of prolific purple
and then
in comes the rain,
soft
as only humid afternoon rain can be,
the sky broken and singing praise
with every beat
on petal and leaf.
Fern demands to be dry,
it's no longer a pleasure -
but for 'Hollow it is.
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