Saturday, 20 June 2015
And THE Cuckoo..
One of those mornings when the air is pearled with silver beads that lift and float with every movement; too full of light to fall to earth. A sky of hammered pewter brushes the fresh-cut grass and swaddles the trees. A myriad snails pebble the field; Fibonacci whirls like fossilised Catherine Wheels. Jackdaws sing scat to the thrush's song; the avant-garde augmenting the lyric. When the rain comes it is serpent soft, hissing through leaves of spearmint-green. The dog-rose is in flower and the cuckoo has yet to change its tune.