Earth

The gardener, Brian, came yesterday afternoon; he's been on holiday for nearly a month so the garden needed his ministrations.  This morning - very early - I bag up the rubbish for the weekly collection. Overcast sky.  It has rained overnight, moisture still hangs heavily in the air, and a snail  makes its slimey way up the wall. The scent of the newly turned soil and cut grass is wonderful.  Half a dozen fuchsia flowers provide a splash of flashy, showgirl colour in an otherwise muted and damp space.   I always try and walk barefoot on the grass as I read somewhere that is good for the health -  and even if it isn't I love it, particularly in wet weather.

Brian went to the States for his holiday.  We compare notes on the Grand Canyon and both agree that we needed far longer than the allotted single day in a packed itinerary.  I still dream of  making it back there one day to walk some of the lesser-known trails - around the North Rim for example.

I was at the canyon in early November 2000.  The day after our arrival in America the Presidential Election took place. We left for home a week and a bit later, still not knowing who the next President would be.  The rest, as they say, is history.  History that is still playing itself out.

September

"September is different from all other months.  It is more magical  ..... For days the weather has been the same. One wakes to see the trees outside bathed in green-gold light.  It's fresh - not cold. It's clear. The sky is a light pure blue.

 .... Midday - with long shadows.  Hot and still.  And yet there's always that taste of a berry rather than a scent of a flower in the air. "

Katherine Mansfield
Journal, September 1921

Daybreak

Very early morning, pre-dawn, in my dressing gown I carry the filled charity shop bag to the front lawn for collection.   A warm wind from the west, soft as a caress, with the faintest scent of flowers and pine.  High above the waning crescent moon says her farewells to the current lunar cycle.

Most of the bag is filled with old books.  I have a schizophrenic relationship with books these days because as fast as the old ones are given away new ones are being ordered; second hand all, so bankruptcy isn't too much of a threat.  In my defence, reading still has to be the primary occupation.   I've just ordered a copy of Katherine Mansfield's Letters and Journal - my previous one fell apart a few years ago I re-read it so much.  Also I'm currently addicted to Lawrence Block's Matt Scudder detective novels.  Very dark but riveting, particularly if you know New York.  At some point I'm going to have to get a Kindle.

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A couple more butterfly photos. The underside of the Small Tortoiseshell's wings is less showy than the upper surface but equally beautiful.