Last weekend, the pueblo celebrated the fiestas of the local Virgin. (Not the summer fiestas – those were at the end of August, and not the fiestas for the patron saint – that’s next month: the Spanish are always happy to take days off work and chase bulls through the streets or set off firecrackers.)
Continue reading “on holiday”
armies of the dead
Some years ago I was in the south of France at this time of year. Everywhere we went there were fields of dead sunflowers lined up like troops deployed to watch the roads.
Instead of the open faces and bright golden helms and plumes of summer knights, these figures had heavy dark heads set precariously on bony stalks that were slowly bleaching to ivory as the year began to fade.
Travelling by car, we sped past far too fast for me to do more than note the overall effect.
Today, though, the stark silhouettes looking over my garden fence have reminded me of these skeletal armies. I can only imagine what it must be like to walk past field after field of them, particularly when the wind is high and their mis-shapen yellowing limbs twitch and shiver and they whisper to each other in a secret language.
seasonal nostalgia
The tail end of summer always makes me slightly nostalgic.
Every time I see blackberries growing in the hedgerow, I remember that one of the few good things about going back to school after the long summer holidays was knowing that we would go blackberrying the next weekend. 
textured thoughts
It’s September and the summer is drifting away. At times, the year seems content to grow old gracefully.
iridescences
I’m back in the village and back to posting pictures of dead bugs. After all, when they’re this beautiful, how can I resist?
The bugs in the poem below aren’t dead. They are, however, as bright as jewels in the early morning sunshine.
Continue reading “iridescences”
don't confuse the narrator 