Morning, after rain

Six o’clock. Everything is wet. This morning’s world is a water-world. The long shaws are silvered with last night’s rain and the beginnings of the May. In a matter of days the treeline will be white with the blossom, each hawthorn tree a plump country girl or sturdy lad in best, fresh-laundered pinafore and smock.

The kestrel, from his swaying perch on the telephone lines, seeks updrafts over the blue-green wheat. The fields are undulating oceans with foaming breakers at their edges. The tide-flowers of the cow parsley, Ultrabrite-white after dusk, are fragile and washed with green, as with pale satin behind the lace.

© New Moons For Old, 2015.

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New Moons For Old

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