weather – Page 36 – don't confuse the narrator

“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.

notes for a poem

Bonfire smoke mixes with drizzle.
From beyond the olive grove,
the stink of pigs rises defiant.

end of the season

The lack of rain meant that most vegetable plots didn’t do very well this year, but there is still a tangle of tomato vines straggling alongside next door’s pig sty.

Seeing the plants reminded me of a line from this piece, which, to judge from the pumpkins, was probably written in late September. It was published in South Bank Poetry Magazine back in summer 2009, so I shall resist the temptation to start tweaking it now.
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Thor’s day

Like medicine that’s “everso nice when the nasty taste’s gone”, several days of torrential rain left has everywhere washed and bright and sparkling:

I expect there will be more storms later, but I’ve tipped the spiders out of my red wellies and found my hand-knitted winter socks, so I’ll be all right.
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blue

The rain finally came at the weekend. To be honest, since it had waited so long, it might have stayed away for another 24 hours and let the villagers have their fiesta fun all through Saturday night.

I suppose I could witter on about words like ‘petrichor‘, but instead I’ll just post this picture of a morning glory that I took while I was down in southern Spain earlier this month. It’s certainly a lot bluer than the sky at the moment.