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.
