morning and evening

I was out and about before the sun was up this morning and rushing off to the station.

That meant I didn’t have my good camera with me – it’s too heavy for general use – and I didn’t really pause to frame and focus, so the pictures I took of the misty morning in the park are not worth the pixels they’d take to display nor the bytes they need for keeping.
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ways and means

Sometimes what you want is inaccessible.

They say the sky’s the limit, but it’s way beyond your grasp.

buddleia seed head, bare twigs and construction crane agains blue sky

Things are complicated: you feel you’ll never manage to track down the ends to unravel the different threads.
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the origin of clouds

Among the plants that evoke the summers of my childhood are buttercups, buddleia and the rosebay willow herb. I’ve posted quite a lot about the willow herb in the last couple of years, probably because I don’t remember it in Spain and now I’m back in the UK, after over two decades without it, it seems to be everywhere.
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in the clouds

cloudsThree weeks ago I wrote that my external hard drive was refusing to boot. Faced with the prospect of losing ten years worth of photos, writing and other memories, I managed to remain optimistic.

I finally took the drive down to the shop earlier this week and have spent a tense few days waiting for news. The chap now tells me that he thinks he has managed to recover everything. To avoid a repetition of the problem, he recommends that I start storing things in the cloud.
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they lied

They promised us a week of rain, starting last Saturday, and I was really rather looking forward to it. In fact, although it’s definitely not as hot as it was, this is probably the most cloud we’ve seen:

Late summer scenery, Gredos
a wisp and a promise

geological shift


It’s not only the seasons that seem to have shifted here. At this time of year, we should have snow on the mountains; instead it looked more as if we had a volcano out there this morning.

“first there is a mountain”

Every time there’s a break in the storms and the clouds start to peel back from the mountains, I hear the jangle of Donovan’s lyrics in my head.

cloud peeling from the mountains after storms
There is a mountain may not be a poem, but the line “The lock upon my garden gate’s a snail” is poetry I’d be proud to have written.

Perhaps I should re-read some of the popular philosophy books on my shelf: they certainly provided plenty of inspiration in the Sixties.