Bog Myrtle & Peat

Rain in the blue dawn; bats guddle in the mirk. I sit in the yard and listen to the day.

The year has passed beyond the point of skylarks; they’re all gone now, or silent, which is the same thing. So morning comes with the clattery chime of swallows – a special song which belongs only to the first glow of dawn.

We’ve all heard swallows, but forget the long, chirpy lines which these birds recite at noon or dusty dusk. This is something other. It’s a rising chant; steely and mechanical; hard to hear. The birds call from the rafters of the byre and the granary; the eight inch gap between hay bales and the tin roof. They call above chicken runs and the snoring rungs of pig ribs because they’ve woken up and they will not fly for another half hour. This is a limbering for the day; the ratchet disposal of roosting.

Rain dews upon me. The turnip field reeks like a chowder of mud and vegetable stock. I watch a hare coming out from the shaws like a cat. A leveret follows her. They’re deft and cautious, and they grudge the water which hangs like a string of bulbs on every thread of grass. They come into the yard and dry themselves on the granite setts. They stand below the heavy flags of my laundry soaking on the line; I forgot to recover those sheets and towels, and now they’re wet again. The youngster nuzzles in to suck. Nettles bend to listen.

This and more at half past four.