|Oak Dragon is up to his neck!|
Rain, the dour forecast tells.
A frown at the sky gives hints of otherwise: an even tone to the humid grey, no rain lumps thickening. This and a stirring wind encourage washing to the line, where it swells to corpulence, seems contented.
The dogs bark at a grocery van; are reprimanded; slouch and sulk in their beds.
All of us are late to bed and early up and not the better for it.
There can be no sympathy for this, no surprise: do the same thing, expect different results? Confess to idiocy and pull on boots.
A little humility and lots of fresh air. We are but made of human stuff.
The rayburn is lit, the coffee strong. The dogs cheer up.
Down to the river we go, Mr, Dog, Fat Beagle and me and a tub for berries, to follow the river-fed hedge and see how the water is rising and pick as we find:
Cadmium-red rowans: poisonous till cooked please note!
Deep-red haws: hanging clear of thorns-
Blackberries and elders, both squish to bloodied maroon: fingers and mouths smeared, sweet gruesome juice!
Crimson rosehips: an orange sunset of unripened hips; the thorns designed as climbing hooks-
Darkly violet sloes: hiding under leaf; shy poignant eyes.
On the water's edge, a rest. The tub is filled. Dog swims, Fat Beagle favours a wade.
'What will you do with these?' Mr asks.
If they would only hold those colours I would thread them, wear them: but they will fade and must be used.
'A jelly jam,' I choose.
We take off coats to walk home and the washing is almost dry.