August 2011

A phone call. Unwelcome news. Everything’s changed.

Bad news chills the air.
Sepulchral rook croaking by.
Sun slips down, abashed.


In the bogs and by the wayside, where there’s little vegetation, insectivorous plants like the butterworts shine out.

Starry butterwort,
bright, shining green galaxies,
Lime constellation.

Glistening rosettes
broadcast their primal allure.
Vaguely threatening.


Heavy, dull weather, but every now and again, a shaft of sunlight breaks through. The ants are leaving their nests, taking flight. A great opportunity for hungry swallows!

A sudden sunburst
fills with ant clouds on the wing.
Muggy air rises.

Pismires take to wing.
It’s the end of a season.
Swallows are training.


The cliff tops are crowded with dancing wild flowers.

White crowns of yarrow
strain, heavy-headed windward.
Waves, too, wear white caps.