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ashlymeFourteen miles walked Saturday. It was warm enough I could wear a lightweight coat, then take it off to bask on a park bench. Crocuses are out on the local verges: white, yellow, several shades of purple (some streaked as if painted by a tiny brush); if I could only breed a black variety I could greet the spring with non-binary flags! We walked late enough to see Venus trembling over the treeline, and the snow moon rise. First a dome of fire caught in the hedge, then molten copper, then old gold sovereign, finally silver. And - I never thought I'd see this - I saw the hare in the moon. Really distinct: ears, haunches, tail. We went down into the Gossies for the best view; I swear to you I could imagine that hare leaping to earth, loping towards me across that field; I can't deny I would have run with her.
The streams at Ravenshaw are thick with blooms of red algae. It's frustrating; someone around there owns so much land that you can't walk on but they can't be bothered to look after the water. I went back to the old orchard at Elmdon Manor and it has to be the setting for the folly story. A pavilion or summerhouse, maybe, half-there half-not, among the apple trees. A middle-aged lesbian couple wandering there - one local, one not; maybe something follows them back and takes root in their garden. Warwickshire isn't a cider county, so there wouldn't be anything like a regular wassail here. But I can't help thinking of a harvest out of season, out of time. I rediscovered the existence of ghost-apples tonight and I don't know if it's ever been cold enough in England for them to form here, but I can't shake off the image of a character biting into one. Ghosts and gardens always run hand-in-hand for me.
(Weird synchronicity: I YouTubed the song for this entry. Next track up was by a band called Moon Rabbit Retreat.. I'm getting a lot of little coincidences like that these last days.)
The streams at Ravenshaw are thick with blooms of red algae. It's frustrating; someone around there owns so much land that you can't walk on but they can't be bothered to look after the water. I went back to the old orchard at Elmdon Manor and it has to be the setting for the folly story. A pavilion or summerhouse, maybe, half-there half-not, among the apple trees. A middle-aged lesbian couple wandering there - one local, one not; maybe something follows them back and takes root in their garden. Warwickshire isn't a cider county, so there wouldn't be anything like a regular wassail here. But I can't help thinking of a harvest out of season, out of time. I rediscovered the existence of ghost-apples tonight and I don't know if it's ever been cold enough in England for them to form here, but I can't shake off the image of a character biting into one. Ghosts and gardens always run hand-in-hand for me.
(Weird synchronicity: I YouTubed the song for this entry. Next track up was by a band called Moon Rabbit Retreat.. I'm getting a lot of little coincidences like that these last days.)