Borrowed words.

Things that are wild.
The west wind. Waves at sea. Flames. Distant stars, so many. The bone white moon. Hawk flight. Firelight in a cat's eyes.

Things that are tame.
Being inside, listening to the wind outside. A still shore. Rainsong on a roof. The smell of baking bread. Firelight in a cat's eye.

Cat's tummy makes the world glow.

Outside, early morning curiosity. Morning light makes ginger glow. Warm house, cold outside and later rain, so we all stayed in to help.

John came and took away paintings for an exhibition at The Imagine Gallery which is in a place that is a long way away, called England. We helped him pack by holding things in place while he stuck bubbles with tape.

But Kiffer was lazy and melting from the warmth of the fire, stretched out long as long so no one else ( other than Martha) could sit there. One long cat!

Now it is raining outside. A small wind howls and yowls and tries to get its paws beneath the doors. And we are warm and dry and cosy. Winter.

One evening in Treleddyd Fawr: or the cushion cats

Outside rain drums on the roof. Patter patter pitter patter. Inside flames curl orange bright. We are cushion cats.

Fire cats, fire dogs.

Dancing firecat of ginger flames warms the house once again. So good, so warm. Outside a wren shouts at the dark bruised sky. It has been a day of rainbows and the world shines like a wet pebble. Beautiful.
We are warm.

After a long walk in the early morning....

....what could be better than to relax with friends,

stretch out,

and just relax, while outside the weather builds and the rain falls. Inside is warm and cosy by the fire, and we wonder, should we have invited the ginger cow home?

To walk in the rain

Last night the clouds attacked the house, threw spears of rain and stones at the roof. This morning the world was washed clean and gentle rain was falling when we walked.




Between the high walls of the ancient path that leads to the top of the hill everything shone with a green glow. Beads of light were held trapped in water berries on the purple branches of the sharp blackthorn, and dripping from the russet heather. Small worlds of water.




On the top of the hill, although it was a light rain falling, the weight of water kept the birds huddled and sheltering in bushes. Last night we feared for these small and fragile creatures, outside in the cold and the fierce storm. We would have asked them to come in for shelter. But they would not have come.




Walking back our fur was pulled to sharp points by the rain. On top of the hill the bracken seemed purple. The heather has lost all its colour.
Home in the warm the fire was welcome and we curled around each other, good to walk in the rain, better to be home again.