Everything's overgrown - despite the lawn's been hacked the day before, cuttings left in chunks to breathe-in like gleanings of hay-field edges, daisies already, today, cocky in the gloom, lifting pretty, survivalist heads above debris.
Hardly a tree above that redolent lawn that doesn't jostle branches or spar with neighbors for the dominance: hands itch for saws - I text my sister.
Hawthorn's in a blush of blossom, the last crab-apple petals cling above profuse litter; long green willow catkins dangle, well-hung above tall stands of alkanet - whose blue broods pure. It's a blowy beach; unicorn waves toss white virgin manes beyond a flowing channel - none of us are Wellingtoned - Urshie finds a cube-stone slightly twisted by the last black hole it traveled through, maybe. We wonder if its green glows when Borg* are by. OK. "Find me a pyramid," I challenge. She 'aports' a tetra! "WTF? A holey stone you could put round your neck?" "Here's one." Wouldn't my dad have loved it all.
And the wind-lull of salt-marsh, sea pinks as ever massed, pulling at your coat tails to sit you down to dream, despite the absence of lark divas, this dull day seeded with wave-spray mist -
a soft day, a Kerryman* would say, hearing curlews calling over his shoulder.
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*Borg are a part of the Star -Trek Universe
Bit of a contrast - East of England / West of Ireland, yet it is so about the day.
