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.