1 November 2019

Wet water wanders dripping down from woodland leaves and branches seemingly wetter water than the water of the paddocks which lies relatively inert upon the earth and grass yet not as wet as the wet wet water of the river that if it were bigger would thunder through the land but must be content to quietly bumble.

2 November 2019

Like flags left from some parade or discarded banners from a protest the world is littered with the leaves knocked down by rain and wind; rotting slower than they fall the carpet builds and for a few brief weeks turns the woodland floor to a rug of wonder colours.

3 November 2019

Wind and water as Tempete Amelie arrives and drops half the Atlantic ocean on her journey to the Massif Central; protected in our shallow valley wind is high in the branches and bending tree tops but water comes down from around us and breaks over the river banks disappointing the dogs whose walk is flooded.

4 November 2019

Grey and white; grey clouds threatening rain white light creeping over the treetops;  grey crane balanced on a bridge lifts off in an unexpectedly gainly fashion rising into the air and sweeping across the flooded field past white egret standing serene and detached oblivious to both our passages the beak dips into the water.

5 November 2019

Water sits and waits upon the earth; waits for earth to drain into the river that struggles to move the waters on; to take the tons of liquid and stirred up silt and shift it through the system; no place to go and no place to be the water sits on saturated ground and waits.

6 November 2019

Our little river’s breaking of its banks has swept the paths of leaves and left the bare earth exposed all shades from brown and black khaki and yellow and in places almost sand; and all I see are beaches of pale white sand neatly sloped that have been swept clean of refugees.

7 November 2019

Chills of absences of family and birdsong of plants and vegetables and flowers that are autumn harvested for cold winter; chills that sit within the air and wait for travellers as well as chills that arrive on breezes as gentle as a summer’s day; air that is clear and air that is chill cleared by more night rain and chilled by the season.

8 November 2019

Earth still saturated so that light glistens between the blades of grass where little lakes hold sway; shallow swathes of sunshine on the ground gently rippling in the slightest breeze; belies the cold that spent the night cooling trees and slowing sap and telling birds to quieten their songs and finalise their nests for coming winter.

9 November 2019

Last night the squidge departed mostly; the woodland squidge that was the paddock squidge remained; when wet he moves into the top centimetre of the earth and foot and paw squeeze out the water compact the earth and call his name; as it dries he leaves usually at night and goes to hide where squidges hide.

10 November 2019

Sunlight dances on the water wriggles through trees lighting up the last remaining leaves of oak and ash and dapples upon the earth where wind moves branches and the evergreens; and sunlight gambols in the air that seeks to steal its warmth and leave it bright but cold as winter takes another step toward our world.

11 November 2019


Home was a village on the edge
Hanging on by our fingernails
Until your second wave of rockets
Smacked the stones cut long ago

Okay sorry not yours I know
You were far away and sleeping
Never having seen our country
And you never touched the trigger

You just sit in rooms and snigger
At the deals done the money passed
Profit on each shell and bullet
Safe in suits and drinking coffee

Babies bodies turned to toffee
As the bombs you sold exploded
And we grabbed our living children
To run and walk and trek away

And they will never learn to play
Never laugh or joke kiss or pray
We pushed them into leaky boats
And hoped the lapping waves were kind

No parent risks their child this blind
Till wolves are tearing at the door
And we will never know their fate
We hope and pray and fear and dread

Wonder what thoughts went through your head
When you sold us into terror
What you promised to your children
Your soul or theirs which was the pledge

12 November 2019

Birdsong breaks the air with diverse conversation; not the tumbling jumble of the spring where every feathered beast calls out the wonders of the day but separate distinct discussions; some serious and others loving some over loud and bragging and others quiet private and only for the ears of loved ones.

13 November 2019

Leaves leaving trees revealing in their falling the glorious skeletons of the woodland still adorning branches with flags of red and gold and yellow thinning and browning with each day showing the bones of place the sinews flexing in the wind and the slowing streams of sap that are the highways and the byways of this world.

14 November 2019

Sun warms the neck and face welcome in the cold clear clean air washed by rain and almost sleet the whole night long; it is the difference that registers; the change a turn from sun to shade can make as chill presses down and the alteration as skin moves from shadow into light and the spirit lifts and smiles.

15 November 2019

As winter presses in it is the change of early light that touches on arrival of the day; what would go bright and clear and sharp is occluded by a drizzle that wanders in and out uncertain of whether to turn to mizzle or to pizzle or just to grizzle and to chisel out the hours until dark.

16 November 2019

Ground is damp again and puddles stretch across the path; not quite as deep as yesterday when old dog would not pass; now there are shallow edges so feet do not become encased in water; damp and muddy but not to the ankle; past slippages into the stream have made you wary and near blindness makes you fear.

17 November 2019

Chill is too temperate a word to describe the thin mist cold clinging to the earth awaiting the first kiss of winter sun whose warmth however slight will bring about its slow disintegration the surface tension holding it together lost to so little heat thus rending it apart filament by thread until its slender existence is too small to register.

18 November 2019

Kites gathered at the house those weeks ago as you lay and faded; two or three waiting with you climbing high and coming back then disappearing once the end was there.  Today we saw them once again soaring in the skies as if they were the flag bearers of your final service.

19 November 2019

A funeral has no antidote; that loss cannot be taken away but must be endured experienced taken in and absorbed; but it can be assuaged balanced its pain made less imminent; and in its old-fashioned use the best medicine I have found is in the smile of a baby preferably paired and in twins; and on this particular day two very particular twins; so thank you both from the bottom of my heart and the heart of my bottom for your gurgles frowns and your knee-walking your hugs and hand-holding your dribbles and snot but above all for your zest for life and for your smiles.

20 November 2019

Travelling ‘home’ when you are elsewhere is always strange and hard; home is where the heart is and my heart is with you laid bare upon the table of your love open to the scalpel of your smile.

21 November 2019

Rain spills from a sky almost English in its greyness; deep blue it was at dawn as light crept slowly in silhouetting trees in their skeletal beauty; now paling as the morning climbs; not a move to brightness but at least away from dull and drear as if shedding that heavy English coat and lightening in colour and load.

22 November 2019

Not quite frost visited last night; not quite enough to turn the dew drops into silver swords to harden grass and crisp the earth; not quite; but enough to squeeze the sap to silence in deep tunnelled tomatoes and leave the last of fruit to hang in blissful isolation.

23 November 2019

More light than heat the sun sparkles through a clear cold sky settling in gentle dapples upon the multi-yellowed leaves which catch the light and strip out all but their particular shade of lemon or daffodil gold or bronze canary or mustard and reflect it back into the world; a billion sunshines rippling softly in the slowly stirring air.

24 November 2019

It seems the water speaks differently in the cold; perhaps the volume of the river is a factor but on warmer days it is not the same; cold seems to harden both water and its resonances adds an edge as if of solidity; not ice we are not there yet no slivers of frozen water on the blades no chips of frost or edges marked with rime; maybe the wind creeps beneath our coats and tightens eardrums so they hear an uncommon song.

25 November 2019

Dull drear and dismal describes the deep dank grey that is the sky; it hangs there shading us from light and sneering at the not yet dormant plants and trees struggling for some last breath before the coming solstice; and as we look askance at this poor showing of a disappointment of a day it spits at us with little drops of rain a skittering of a shower as if to say we are not worth a downpour.

26 November 2019

Leaves gather on the ground in puddles round their trees; and when you look again another day they have drained away and drifted to the paths; a growing river of discarded jewels that fade into the earth as colour flows away; and that tributary leads us through the trees meandering in time and space but heading always for the heart.

27 November 2019

Damp from night rain leaves leaves collapsed upon the earth a two-dimensional multi-coloured carpet of delight that fails in the struggle to hold some height against the weight of water that still tumbles from the trees each breath of wind tipping out more liquid even as the showers replenish the reservoir.

28 November 2019

Light breaks through the treetops to shine upon the puddles left from yet more rain; that swells the river and wears away the banks until trees begin to find themselves within the stream the waters lapping at their roots and teasing out the earth destabilising them so any wind however light now rocks them to their foundations.

29 November 2019

Climbing slowly in a clear sky the sun scatters light through trees using every leaf for colour and sparkles upon those that lie close upon the ground; not yet flat but shaped by their independent histories these chameleons are not yet brown of earth describable only as generic leaves but hold the autumn in their veins retain their curls and edges of distinction and proudly display their ancestry of oak and ash and beech.

30 November 2019

Poetry and practically clash as a wondrous pink sky fades from its momentary majesty and old dog’s plight becomes the order of the morning; three quarters under water in the mill run the help of two of us is needed to get him out and dry the outer edges of his fur before lying him down before a fire.



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