Green lanes and yellow pillows.

Late morning and finaly She starts to walk, up the green lane that now tunnels the emerald summer light, narrowed by grass and fern and bramble, all full of summer growth.

At the top of the hill pillows of tormentil  soften the grass where the little people of the air criss cross on butterfly wings and glass wings and feather wings, or jump and sing their grasshopper songs in golden grass flowers. A short walk. We rest amid the songs of insects and watch cloud shadows dance across the land.

Then home again as She has work to do, but at home we find rest in the garden where the herbs grow.

The moon has come to rest in our garden of herbs.

 Meanwhile, in the studio, and She is wandering off into a world of painting when She should be thinking of nursery rhymes. Soon She will begin work on the cat book. For now, cheetahs and cherries.

Somewhere a cat is always watching

Sunday.

Early morning sunshine paints the sycamore seeds a glowing red. Bird song raises the sun. Wind plays with the leaves and grass and flowers through which butterflies dance a chaotic canter. The honeysuckle tree is rich with a thousand flowers, almost open. The ash tree is heavy with a weight of leaves. Foxgloves line the stone walls, made centuries ago by working hands while cats looked on, dreaming of the plump and succulent mice that would make their homes in a labyrinth of tunnels that weave through them now.

It is peaceful quite in the rose swaying, breeze blowing, summer sunshine land of garden.

Summoning

First, early morning light through apple blossom, bluebells. She has too much work to do, but part of this work should be walking and dreaming. So She takes the bowl from the studio and we head up the hill together, woman, three dogs, bowl and me, Pixie.

The morning now is green grass and sunshine, east wind, early.

On top of the hill we wander and look and sniff and listen, and then it begins, a strange noise, a humming, a rising summoning of dragons. The wind still blows and carries the bowl's song, throwing it high into the air with the skylark exultation and even when She stops the bowl goes on, and on, and on. Beautiful, with the sea song, bird song, wind song, bowl song.

And did they come, on wings of fire blazing glory across a blue sky? Wait, and watch, and see. But most of all........... listen.

 

Today I will be mostly...

...hiding in heather.

Woman are such fickle things.

Cats do not get jealous....or sulk. I just want to know who is sending her flowers. And why? And what, at the end of the day, is wrong with a nice bunch of mice. She never seems so pleased when I bring Her mice.

Summer solstice and twilight walking

The day was warm and we rested in nests of grass in shady places while sharp voiced birds shouted warnings that we were there and that their fledglings should beware, for even in sleep we are dangerous. Then evening came and at last She called the dogs to walk. First Pixie and me, then Kiffer who waited in a field as if knowing which way to go. On the path up the hill the white elderflowers glowed like stars in the evening light.

The longest day, the shortest night, but the evening had tricks to play on the daylight and called in the mist to lie over the land and steal the light from the day, pockets of mist, the breath of the dark, fell into the gloaming.

And over the sea towards Ireland the sun set the light to burn the clouds bright. The sea so calm, wrinkled by the winds sigh, and the world so peaceful, holding its breath, waiting for a storm.

On the way back we prowled against the dark sky, wild cats, inky dark and blending with shadows.

The night belongs now to the moths, to the aireymice who hunt them and to our sister, the owl.

Sunshine through ginger ears

The sun shines warm though the wind is cold.

On top of the hill we walk together while a great buzzard wheels and mews then hangs on the edge of the wind. I wish for wings.

The rock is becoming a stage for flowers. Foxgloves grow tall and bees dip in and out of their speckled purple cups.

Stars of purple-blue squil still hold a reminder of spring. Soon the cuckoo will be quiet again, then away for another year. For now the sky is stitched with a pattern of swifts in flight. We sit on the cusp of summer.

Exciting days

Maurice went hunting, caught a mouse, found a bluebell.

Meanwhile back at home after an exciting morning climbing on the roof of the house, posing by the honeysuckle, being chased by the jackdaws nesting in the chimney and falling off the roof into a potplant, Kiffer stretched out on the sofa, and decided that as it is only just big enough for her we should get another one.