Bog Myrtle & Peat

Summer bounds past in a dusty rush of heat and flowers. The world has moved a thousand miles since my last post, and now I crouch beneath the weight of dry, sunbright days.

There is too much to tell, but let me gabble in hurried tones of fox cubs, roe kids and yellowhammers; a bolting hayfield shot with heads and the curling, skinnish corners of cut peat. The calves are late; they’re still to come but the oats are tall and rolling. A nightjar croons through blossom in hours of gentle darkness.

Last night I walked home through a galaxy of nodding cotton with a roe buck hung over my shoulder. Emperor moths flew from the heather like dry beech leaves and a ring ouzel blinked in the last flicker of late sun; his white bib was jammy and red.

Work and life continues. I can’t wait for the time to write again.