Bog Myrtle & Peat

Cattle in the rain, and the grass in a hurl of water. The bull works and the failing leaves turn up their bellies in disgust. There are times when I see great progress in the calves; signs of growth and prosperity. But they’re small and cool in the rain, and their curls soak the water like trailing threads. It takes a good day to see them well; spruced and fluffy as bears. But it’s hard to make that out when they lie sadly in the docks and gaze doe-eyed at the shortening light.

It’s dark from ten o’clock to five, and the summer wilts back to a usable span of night and day. Rowan berries shine like grapes. I find Scabious, St John’s Wort and the Grass of Parnassus. A hawk pulls palls of down from a pigeon.

And like a receding tide, curlews pass over the farm and out to sea. They call in teams of five and six, and a feeling comes like spring in reverse; damp echoes in the cloud.