Blue skies again
Already though a whisper of chill on the early morning air tells me that a change is coming. Leaves already turning, confused by weeks of relentless heat and sun.
For now though the garden remains vibrantly, verdantly lush.
A slight breeze, and if I breathe in hard I catch the faint trace of lavender. Even this early in the morning the bush is heavy with bees addicted to the sweetly antiseptic scent. Another breath and I can smell the last blooms of the honeysuckle, their fragrance touched with decay.
An obese pigeon flies overhead, comical in it’s ungainliness. In it’s head is it soaring with the grace of an eagle?
Wasps circle the lawn like sharks. I tuck my feet up on the chair.
Just in case.
Eyes closed now, the haven of my garden shrinks away and I am gradually surrounded, not by the peace and tranquility I expected, but by an absolute cacophony of noise.
Magpies argue loudly on the rooftop. The smaller birds, finches and tits, delighting in their ability to manoeuvre in a garden that is inaccessible to their larger cousins, chase each other from tree to tree, taunting as they fly.
The gently inebriated drone of the bees.
Further away now. Today the noise of the distant traffic becomes transmuted in my head into the roar of a great river. The sound is the same but the irritation is gone. Magic.
Overhead the faint rumble of a plane. A white thread of silk in a tapestry of blue. In this moment I don’t envy the travellers. In this moment I wouldn’t swap this tiny tangle of green for anywhere else.