spring pastoral


(photograph © Rachel Louise Silverlight)

In the country, the country was to me, a series of images. You come here to not be you. You come for the silence of the world; all the silence of blustering humanity and your own dreadful ego. You come here just to watch.

In the country I watched the seasons change, the sparseness of winter dressed in greens and browns; in the country a white Christmas with snow on the hills and I crashed a car into a hedgerow, the unsalted icy lanes one morning at twenty miles per hour and I spun, and drove on.
I saw snowdrops and then daffodils. I watched the week long amphibian orgy of the pond in the garden and counted the weird jelly left behind after they’d gone, the four small newts that nibbled at it among the weeds. This time the tadpoles are specks but I’ve seen them before in this underwater city made out of bubbles, hundreds of them turning from dot in a spawn to  wriggling black eel, when legs grow, and they turn green, and then they go. So strange the metamorphosis. One day they just go, are gone. One morning I see the first lambs on the hillside, all long legged and pure snow white floppy eared, three of them there are between two ewes, birthed overnight. At night you hear foxes shriek faraway in the dark.

In March I saw the ring around a three quarter moon and watched the constellations rotate as seasons passed. The stars were too many, like freckles, in the country. Shooting stars in August, in November.

I saw the woods fill up with bluebells on the banks of the secret brook trickling between hollow banks low in summer at the particular time of day when the ferns and the spiderwebs are illuminated in dappling sunlight and the purple flowers giving out the holy scent; the beauty of the bluebell woods untranslatable.
In wellies, Rose and I clambering along the stream bed from where the earthen volkswagen beetle submerged and rusts among the ivy and bamboo to the abandoned house and there to perilously climb on along the mossy tree grown through it above a sea of nettles, and to dream in sunlight of the extravagant parties we’ll have or not have in its grounds, one year, when we finally get it together. In the stream we excavate bones and bottles out of its rooty clay banks.

In the summertime one morning I watch a dawn over the valley. Mist in the creases glowing like a golden river, and the strong first sunlight that burned my lips and feet.

Fields of dandelion clocks a silvery sea rippling, fields of buttercups, fields of clover, lying, in secret fields, to watch the icebergs of the sky, the phantom fish bone clouds.

Donkeys brayed meanwhile buzzards keening and circling the sky thermals; a perfect stillness of the world, silence of the treacherous ego, and I thought I had seen it all, I saw it all, in fragments.

Related post: enjoy the silence for the pictures


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