He swooped in so fast, it felt as if someone pinged my ear. A whoosh of air, a blur of speed, then he was gone. My heart galloped, eyes bulged, a tremble goosed my flesh.
Had I, in the low light, the past dusk, caught a bird in mode of hunt. Or weary for my bed, had wanderings mused things in my head. All was over so fast, I yawned, fisted my eyes and retired to bed.
By five, I woke with a wet nose pressing to my leg. A pup to walk, time to pee. Dawn had broken with birdsong; energy pumped my blood. I take my tablet with Merlin on to identify the birds I see.
Too keen to dress, eager to greet this sultry day in Aquitaine. Lilly snapped with a wagging tail at a jasper buzzing by. I stretch my neck, breathe in deep, wriggle my toes in quickly drying dew.
The hum of a distant plane silvers through the palest cloud-free sky. The campsite is still in sleep, I relish this peace, the beauty of a new day. Lilly is back, under the awning, curling in her chair.
Lilly at camping le lieu Aquitaine
I stoop, to scratch her head, she sighs, going down to sleep. That’s the moment, the moment I notice, the night visitors calling card. On the Cadac, where we cooked our meal.
As if placed by a butler, for the lady of the house. Maybe wanting us to know, we were privileged to have had the company, all-be-it momentarily, of a Kestral while hunting for a mouse.
Thank you for stopping by, though as you see, we are away in our motor home I would love a comment on two.
A Kestrel tail feather.
Have you seen or heard something beautiful, unexpectedly? I would love toknow. Leave a comment or two, I would love ❤️ to chat.
‘Catch the loop, stupid girl. It’s crochet! Not bloody spaghetti. Pin it, pin it I say.’ My plump finger’s try so hard. My hands ache, my jaw clenched tight. I feel a sigh doop my shoulders. I open my mouth. A taste of metalic bitterness makes me wretch as my tounge wipes my lips. I can feel it pulsating, toothmarked and sore.
‘Useless girl.’ Her palm catches the nearest thing, my temple. I am pinned to that chair, my knickers damp as I flinch. This time I duck and she misses. Now she grunts, stoops eye to eye her spittle sprays my face. A hand as big as my head grasps, thumb in cheek, finger’s squeezing, digging.
Tomorrow I will wear makeup to school, At six, I learn how to change reality with imagination. First task of a Monday, tell the class what you did at the weekend. ‘Mummy taught me crafts’ I say this, standing proud on my chair.
Thank you Pnsivity101 #threethingschallenge
I love to chat, please leave me a comment before you go.
There are books that save you, that wet your cheeks, that make you feel lost when they are finished.
There are the ones that remind you of when you first heard them read, and ones you devoured under blankets, with a torch in your bed.
There are books that show you the best places to stay, the weather, the seas and the best way to pay.
I can be transported in time and space, by a glance of a well worn cover. The turn of an eye, a kiss from a lover.
There are books so precious that you could never lend, and books you re-cover again and again. You could replace them when covers tear, or pages come loose, but you don’t. You can not bear to part with that first copy that stole your heart.
There are books on your shelf because they once belonged to a person you loved, those ones will remind you of the life they had, and times you shared.
There are those that make you laugh out loud, and you speak of them often with a huge grin while gesticulating enthusiastically. … Or maybe that is just me.
Occasionally you find the book, that, … is as if it’s written about you, or the dress you wore, or the shade of your hair, she has your coat draped over a chair.
This life, the one I live, would be poor, and sad, and altogether less exciting, if it were not for the world of books that I am so lucky to have.
Yesterday, it rained and blew. Will St. Swithen’s prophesy come true? Don’t watch this space for forty nights n days Just take a mac, throw Galloshers in the boot Splash in puddles it will be a hoot. Don’t be maudlin or depressed Who gives a random piece of fruit
Giff On loan by Tenor
Ignore the wet, twirl as you did long before. Before life turned us into crashing bores.
Pinked cheeks on show for folk to see Your grey hair flying, take a chance Twirl and spin, swirl and dance. Care not if neighbours snarl or spit Cause this ole fossil, … don’t give a shit.
What do you think of random poets or St.Swithens day? Leave me a thought in the comment. I look forward to our chats.
You are too old for kicking up your heels, too old for acting the fool, too old for wearing a sleeveless dress and having your hair long; it looks such a mess.
You are too old to wear those boots, they’re for the beautiful, the youthful ones like models and teens. Not old exhibitionists and women unrefined, not sixty-five-year-old Grandma’s with faces all lined.
You shouldn’t wear red at your age, it’s just not the done thing. How can you be taken seriously if you dress like that and as for that hat! What were you thinking, what sort of example do you make? Out wearing lipstick and rouge. Stockingless legs, … I’ve never seen such a thing.
Holding hands in public, are you scared you’ll take a fall? Turn your cheek, an air kiss is best for someone your age. Smile, don’t giggle you are long since being a girl. No dancing, leave it to the young you had your time, and frankly, your time is done.
So, as you can see, I take no notice of being too old for this or that. I dare to be sleeveless and wear a hat, I drink fizz when I want to and dance to a tune. Kick up my heels and occasionally light up a room.
I can stomp at a festival swig drink from a can I can swear like a sailor if the occasion seems right. I can mix with the poor of pocket, those down at heel, as quickly as I converse with any ladies n gents. I can hold court with the best that there is. Because I am no worse or no better, there is no ‘Class’ in how we were bred. Just human beings with thoughts in our heads.
Below, is myself reading the poem for those who want to hear rather than read.
I hope you enjoyed a poem inspired by some of my Mother’s ‘suggestions’ but remember who suggested them. At 91 her thoughts differ somewhat from mine. Let me know in the comments below if you have had any such suggestions I would love to know.
Before you get stung. Long before your back aches and nettles have numbed the pads of your fingers, Stop! Assess the situation, what do you need? Before you take on the task. What tools are available and can you actually achieve what you’ve promised with the equiptment that is there.
Pulling on one blue disposable glove found in the conservatory drawer, I remember thinking, … It’ill do. That was before wriggling my hand into the second glove. A gentle tug at the cuff removed all the fingers, like some 1950’s cartoon.
Mother hides the key to the shed in a closet, why? Mum says, ‘Better safe than sorry.’ In my deck shoes, one blue glove, a blue plastic covered thumb and wrist, I just get on with it. ‘Put your back into it, a bit of elbow grease is all it takes,’ said Mum.
Dad had all his gardening implements in order, clean, hung and in excellent condition. Nine years since Dad and longer since I really took stock. On the surface every thing looked fine. I had taken the mower, rake and hoe for a workout on occasion without a problem. But that day I needed more, so delved deeper to collect things. The bucket had lost its handle, the watering can was missing the rose, secateurs were nowhere to be found and the garden fork had only two prongs.
The day was balmy, the sun, had very little heat as it is early May in England. Everyone who is anyone knows May is the month for catching you without a coat. Last week it was hail with a smattering of snow, like flour on the floor when I bake. But the bright day enthused me to the task. An hour in and I stop, wipe my face and look at the barely touched, rock hard earth. Either dust or concrete Mum suggests tea and a rest, apparently I look a rather good shade of beetroot; thanks Mother.
A Robin had been watching from the fence post, … worm waiting. Mother quipped ‘It’s Dad, checking that you are doing it right.’ Armed with a walnut slice and a napkin she placed in front of me, and nodded towards it. ‘Eat up, you’ll need your strength.’ I cracked on. Two Robins got very close to the two pronged fork looked at each other and twittered. I swear they said. ‘She has no chance.’ And flitted back to a nearby shrub.
Perseverance was the key to success, as three hours in I had wrestled brambles, nettles and bind weed. I had trimmed the ornamental grass and weeded. I planted some random seeds found in an old lone Wellington boot and watered what was left of the 12 foot long flowerbed.
The almost full garden bin was the proof of my labour’s.
Around ten that night I noticed the phone flash with several missed calls from Mum. ‘Hello Mum, are you okay?’ The line crackled she stumbled her whispered words. ‘Someone has been in the garden, they have stolen all my plants up the back, left it bare they have.’ I pause to check myself so as not to make the confusion worse. ‘It’s okay Mum It was me, that was what I was doing weeding and tidying, … this afternoon?’ ‘Oh, yes yes of course, you should have told me dear, I was a bit worried. I am ninety you know, fancy giving me a fright.’ … I guess that being 90 and nearly one, has its downside on occasions.
Lessons learnt 1. Brown owl was right one should always be prepared. 2. Mothers frequently know best. 3. Robins are as astute as Mothers. 4 being over 90 is not always perfect.
This was written for Esme’s prompt Go here to join in or read others responses.
A northern flicker.
Although not a Northen Flicker My Robin seemed to fit the bill nicely. If you liked? it let me know in the comments.
This morning, I woke to a pink sky. For the first time in weeks the wind and rain had stopped battering us, leaves stopped swirling in never ending circles on the lawn. Squirrels could collect and bury their nuts without their tails slapping their faces as they did so.
The sun streams through the windows to remind me of the things I need to do, or didn’t do as well as I thought. I refer to this type of light, the sort that comes in low and shows up every speck of dust and glass streak it can find. ‘The Dirty Sun.’
Grunts and rumbles can be heard from overhead, a tap runs a cistern noisily empties.The Husband wanders down stairs fresh from sleep, scratching his head and looking about the room with a bemused squinting smile on his face.
I get it in first. ‘Can you see what this dirty sun has done to the table and windows?’ Without stopping for breath. ‘How very dare it leave such a mess.’ ‘Let us just close the curtains then we don’t have to look, … what do you say?’ He smiled and replied. ‘It makes perfect sense to me.’ Such a considerate man. > I sigh < I go back to writing while the cups clink in the kitchen and his voice heavy with laughter said, ‘Tea.’
I would love to hear your comments, at least to read some. I follow other commenters blogs and would love to get to know you. “How’s your morning?”
At five I wished on a candle stuck in a little soldiers head, impaled in the icing of a Victoria sponge cake. My wish was sent out to the universe to be granted and promptly forgotten, … as spur of the moment wishes often are.
If I had to guess, I expect it was to be allowed to strip off the icing, to eat it first. If so, it would not have come true. Today, at 64 I send out daily gratitude affermations. I thank the universe for the wonderful life I have now; and of course for saving my teeth.
This is for Charli’s Monday 99 word story prompt, you can read all the collection of stories > here <
P.S. I publish this on my first born’s birthday.
I would love to read your favourite best wish in the comments x
Ellenbest24 