Brambles is the word I would call them, especially as we gathered these beauties locally, but will allow the late and great Seamus to call them as he wished. Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green,… Continue reading A gift
'[Rain] came off the grey vastness of an Atlantic that threw itself against the land like a lover once spurned and resolved not to be so again. It came accompanied by seagulls and smells of salt and seaweed. It came with cold air and curtained light. It came like a judgement, or, in benign version,… Continue reading Drookit
On return from a short break up to the wilds of Ardnamurchan, we found this beautiful hand-drawn image on our kitchen chalkboard. A gift from our lovely dog-sitter, the talented Diana Notman. All the more lovely as it is fleeting.
As, possibly, the only person on the planet who cannot seem to grow the simple potato, I am delighting in my flowering plants. This, allegedly, is some kind of celeriac. It may be edible but, for now, I think it I will just look at it. It surely deserves that.
'Within our darkest night, You kindle a fire that never dies away, never dies away, within our darkest night.' (Communauté de Taizé, 1991)
Anne M Scriven 