Song on a May Morning

A Time to Dance

I am up early - very early.  I hail May in all its finery, walking an ancient drover's way, heady with the scent of blossom:

The fields are frilled with white:

Mist curls up from a stream behind the dewy flowers:

A Muntjac hesitates ahead of me:

A Hare appears to beckon me on:

In the sky, the swifts are screaming, Here I am! Here I come! Now I'm gone!

While the bold Sedge Warbler rasps his territorial tune, Here I am! Don't come near!

The Meadow Pipit surrounds himself with prickles: 

The Avocet Pas de deux is safe in the water:

And a Short-eared Owl just stares me out:

It is a beautiful time of year, though every season has its thing (Er, shouldn't that be Everything has its season?  Ed.)

No. There is something of beauty in every season, and the blessing we have is that in this neck of the woods, at least, there is variety from month to month, even from day to day.  Here three Prickets (Fallow Deer bucks in their second year) peer at me across the bulb field,

And a Turtle Dove looks down on me from above:

Things that are entirely seasonal.  I just hope that they may come round again.

On my way home, I am struck by the shadow of the church, which reaches out to (but falls short of) the village. 

Only a year ago I would share these walks with Amanda. Now she cannot join me across country on rough paths.  We are limited to the paved ways of the Hunstanton Promenade and such.  To every thing there is a season.....

Song on a May Morning

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Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
  Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
  The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
  Hail bounteous May that dost inspire 
 Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
  Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
  Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.  

John Milton


Oh, and here's a Painted Lady (Vanessa to her friends) with barely a fortnight to enjoy this life.....





Blink, and it is all over.......


To every thing there is a season, 
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; 
a time to plant, 
and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; 
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; 
a time to mourn, 
and a time to dance;

(Ecclesiastes)

Summertime

 And the living is easy?

It is the end of July.  Last night it rained here, a satisfying drench for the parched land, though far from enough.  Today is cloudy, and there may be more water to fall, though it is impossible to second guess the vagaries of this summer.

We haven't had real rain for weeks - possibly months, I haven't been counting.  It could be worse, perhaps.  Not everything is dead:

And this Chiffchaff found some caterpillars to feed to its young:

But this baby Stonechat is going to find its youth cut out with endless searching for grubs:

In the hedgerows there are already signs of autumn.  Hazel nuts begin to ripen:

Crab apples are showing colour on their skins:

The blackberries that have not already shrivelled to nothing are ready to pick:

And sloes are almost ready for the gin:

I shouldn't anthropomorphise but this Sedge Warbler has a worried look....  It knows things aren't right:

And this Yellowhammer pleads for at least a little bit of bread (with no cheese) from a dead twig:

While these Sparrows risk sleepless nights by shredding the unripe elderberries:

It may be all right for Goldfinches - they like thistle down!

But even that may be in short supply after the recent fires:

Which were mercifully controlled by the local brigades (without air support):

But which have exposed the mindless littering of those who come in their droves here to 'enjoy nature!'

It is a wasteland:

Beautiful walks destroyed in the drop of a spark:

Yes, life will go on, perhaps.  This young Robin may grow up to have young of its own:

This Turtle Dove may return next summer to a green and pleasant land:

The plague of Ladybirds, which reminds me of 1976, may not reappear for another 45 years.... perhaps?

The declining populations of butterflies may somehow turn a corner, though, judging by my very recent visit to Holt Country Park, where trees are withering, their leaves crisp and falling, everything is parched to probable death:

African skies are now commonplace:

And high above me a seagull listlessly chases a Buzzard in circles (two dots in the bottom centre), neither of them bothering to scavenge as there is precious little life to eat:

Though they both missed this mole, unable to bury itself in the rock hard ground where no worms survive:

At home our cats wilt in the heat, wasting water needlessly:

And Amanda sleeps uncomfortably on, fortunately unaware of the state we have brought ourselves to:

In my beginning is my end. In succession

Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,

Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place

Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.

Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,

Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth

Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,

Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.

T S Eliot

East Coker