Sunday, 10 August 2014


Gusty wind today. All the valley bends and groans under the weight of the years. Clouds scudding on by, sailing up above me. I went walking to the river and sat on a rock. Saw the otter watch me then glide easily into the water. Her fur was puckered and jagged from the wet drops rolling off her back.

Then, of course, the splendour of the Kingfisher, fleeting, shooting above the river into the safety of the orange banks of mud. Her colour always surprises me; such a bright, electric blue. Glimmering she was, as the sun dropped through the clouds.

Then down under the great brick bridge where there is a mighty waterfall, and the cars sailing over the top, cannot be heard. Wrote my name there, with the blood of a blackberry.

Now here am I, writing as though I were Virginia Woolf, and you, her diary. Full of her today though, always am whenever I see her Kingfisher. Her unspoken favorite.

1 comment:

  1. I never thought it could manifest even in a most literal way! :-)
    I've always thought that the dividing line between this modern mechanical world of machines and the romantic world of artists could only be invisible and it is in the poetic hearts of artists and dreamy souls..

    But there you were, under the pretty bridge, above you was the mechanical modern world of machines with cars, while underneath it was you and the poetical world--and I can even tell what we may call such a poetic world just by looking at the scarlet letters formed by the blackberry! ♥ :-)

    The two contrasting world, the practical and the ideal, are there, their opposite differences are so clearly laid out in the sharpest form!

    Everything that you do is poetic to me..Perhaps I'm right in assuming that whenever you're around people, they can tell that something is just different with your presence ♥