Roman Road

Tyres hiss in the grey rain. Beside the arrowing Roman road the old oak stands; hag like and wild haired. Jumbled rafts of twigs clutter their clawing limbs. Beside each nest a rook stands guard, looking out into the rain at time passing. And then I am gone.

Storm over Tysoe

The storm was preceded by Wedgewood blue skies and the goats' hair of cirrus clouds. Then the barometer fell and it arrived. It came, at first, puppy-playful and boisterous, desert-warmed and seeded with rain, tumbling and whipping over Windmill Hill from down Winderton way. The windmill's sails flexed and clanked; straining to once more and fly with the wind, to break free and spin until the sparks flew and smoke billowed feeding the wind with a devil's fire.

The larches cresting Sunrising hill roar like breakers on Chesil beach. Their trunks creaking like clippers off Cape Horn. Penny and I stand on this frozen wave of rain-rattled escarpment and listen to the wild thunder of treesong. Penny hunches. She is not fond of this weather.

Below, the church stands on its little island. The rivers and tidal creaks of houses flowing around it. Even today, its profile exudes a sense of warmth and timeless solidity. Older storms have raged and fiercer Gods have been worshipped here in the past. When the world was younger did not the God of Golgotha ride upon the Canaanite storms and make the wilderness of the Israelites twist and writhe?

Now fences are torn and sheds upturned. The elm, across the road, scatters its gnarled finger-bones on the pavement. Even the rooks are grounded. On the lower road, they hang piratical to the thrashing Jolly Roger branches. Crow's nest calamities lie strewn jetsam upon the ground. Earlier I had watched a pair of jackdaws carelessly flung like heraldic emblems upon the perilous sky. Tomorrow they will be back for beak-fulls of the elm's discarded debris to rebuild lost nests.

A blackbird surfs a branch with a quizzical eye; its beak yellowing with the season's turn and the pulse of life.

The little oak that stands beside Winnie's gate still holds on to its crisp brown leaves. The wind worries them; hanging there like thrown toffee wrappers.

Penny blinks the rain from her lashes and we contemplate the sheep. They continue to graze unconcerned by the ripping squalls. So we splash home with the wind at our backs to a packet of ginger biscuits and a discussion on the wetness of wet.

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Blue and Green

For the first day in almost a week the skies are calm, the trees still; just a gentle breeze ruffling the branches of the conifers. The clouds that rode the back of the blustery south winds have gone and the sky is as blue as blue, as blue as the blues in childrens' books. I watched a magpie fly overhead. There was a large twig in its beak. I love the silhouette of birds carrying twigs, quietly busy about their task; full of hope; excited about tomorrow... Little flames of crocuses burst among the emerald grass of the village green.