Bog Myrtle & Peat

Imagine the darkness before dawn, and the slosh of cool rain after a dry month. A curlew is calling, and the rushes dance to the patter of falling water. There are violets and celandines at the dyke foot; the knowes are crowded with wood anemones and bluebells. It’s fast becoming day, and the glen is soft and rolling with a smool of mist. The purl of a cuckoo comes like a pulse from the hill; close and mothersome like a living comfort.

The stones are soaking, and the soil drinks the rain into a paste. Now is a time to be born, and I can do little more than envy our first riggit galloway calf. He’s quiet and shy, and he’s everything we’ve worked towards for half a decade.