When the storm is rising and strong winds blow,
The fly fearless before the gathering clouds,
Dark apparitions
of beauty.

Blue sky, baking sun.
Two pidgeons stand forlornly,
In a dried up puddle.

A squirrel led me down the muddy hill and to the picnic site, he didn’t stay for lunch but vanished through the hedgerow ( Read more... )

The Rainbow ( Read more... )

I stepped out of summer and into spring, the calm quiet warmth of summer the air thick with the scent of blossom was blown away in an instant as I stepped out of the shelter of the hill ( Read more... )