BLOWN AND WASHED AWAY

If it ain't raining it is pouring. Brendan (only the Irish could name a storm Brendan (though Trump might name it Daniels?)) has blown through and more low pressure systems to follow. It will soon be a time for picking up fallen twigs and branches. In the garden the many fieldfares, redwings and thrushes have not eaten the holly berries. With the mild weather there must be enough other food around. Oh! And I have not mentioned the blackbirds - now when I drive the lanes they scatter from under my wheels. They, I suppose, find the edges under the hedges (note the rhyme)  full of snails and slugs and stuff.

I go out to top up the bird feeders and am startled by a raucous blackbird. Then I see why. Sitting on a buddleia stump, eight feet away and watching me is a sparrow hawk. We stare at each other, then I make the mistake of saying, "Hello." The hawk shrugs and lazily launches itself across the lawns.

The snowdrops come on apace and outside the back door there is the familiar winter scent of the sarcococcus, its small creamy flowers put out a strong aroma. The bush is roughly clipped into a round shape to appeal to R's liking for topiary and order in things.

The mowers have gone for their service. 

Not much on the Bushnell video camera apart from pheasants - R saw 3 cock and three hen birds by pond - looks like we are becoming a breeding colony? Two videos worth keeping but not showing - a wren and a blue tit by the outflow from the pond.

 So here are two images of weeded and almost completely mulched veg beds. On the left the odd object is a rhubarb forcing pot to keep the plant in the dark. The thing on the top is a substitute lid as I never had the original. 

There are still a few sprouts to pick.

And still falls the rain. (I do pick the occasional line from someone else - tho this one from Edith Sitwell had a more sinister connotation.) I am getting bored, even the golf course is shut because of the waterlogged ground.

Despite the dark and gloomy weather there are highlights here and there like this shrub (R bought it for 50p I think) and the flowers to come on the skimmia - this is a male.

 And boy does it rain - hence a really cheerful poem (Hmm?)

NOTHING BUT THE RAIN

There is nothing but the rain

whipped on the window.

Droplets scour grey trails,

panes are cloud tinted, cold.

Outside winter trees quiver 

in the quickening gale, wait. 

A clock chimes the quarter,

denotes more sad minutes gone,

leaves a long echo in the hall.

Soon night will absorb the day,

light will fade. And tomorrow?

Much the same they say

giving names to each new storm

as if that will tame the way

it insinuates nails into my life.

I look into the dark and

there is nothing but the rain.

There is nothing but the rain

sluicing the gutters and drains.

I go out, face the wind,

wince as the icy beads

beat against my skin, sting.

And I bend my weary back,

acknowledge the power

that thrashes the coppice twigs,

scatters debris into the fields.

There is no shelter on the fell

above the roaring wood,

sea spray flays my cheeks, 

leaks through my open lips.

There is no room for thought,

no future, past, just now.

I am desolate, empty,

There is nothing but the rain.

Well, now that has cheered everyone up at least the days are getting longer.