Abstract Landscape Painter. Rural Dweller. Lover of Modernist Art and Design.
Everything is beginning to dry out in the heat. The tops of the meadow grasses are golden brown and many of the corn crops look as if they are starting to turn. With high temperatures forecast, and no rain for the foreseeable future, it looks as if the harvest may be early this year.
There are more butterflies than ever amongst the grasses. As I sit here, writing, they are fluttering haphazardly across the tops of the seed heads and flowers in the field. In the distance, there is what my father would have called a “heat wobble” - a visual disturbance, just above the surface of the earth, caused by the high temperature. The butterflies look even more erratic, as they waver through it.
Some scuttling, to my left, most likely signifies the presence of a mouse rummaging around in a heap of ivy-covered logs, whilst our resident blackbird (the one with the missing tail feathers) is singing his fruity little song in the holly tree. He has grown so tame, since raising his family in the garden, that he dares to come very close. He has taken to sitting on the fence, just above my head, and to serenading us. On a garden table, 2 meters away, we have set out a water bowl. He appears on the fence opposite and then flies over to the wooden surface. His egg-yolk yellow beak is open, as if to let out the heat within. With admirable boldness, he hops across the tabletop and onto the edge of the ceramic container, to enjoy a lengthy drink. Then, with his thirst quenched, he moves to the shelter of the blousy, perfumed Philadelphus, in order to perform his song-cycle once again.
All text & images ©2018 Carol Saunderson