Sunday, August 15, 2010
I know that in a blink of an eye, frosty fingers will be replaced with sweaty palms. Rather than the dance of voluptuous, dollopy raindrops over puddles, the grass will become frazzled and stingy. Soon the cicadas will shriek again: tuneless and shrill. The sun will prickle 40 degree heat down on pale, vulnerable skin and torment with tangled, sleepless nights.
I’ve loved the last couple of weeks: it’s been proper winter. Like it used to be. Today there’s a Sunday quiet that comes with leaden winter skies and the call of inside warm. Even the washing machine has gone into weather-induced hibernation and I’m in clean-undie-supply denial (I’ll so kick myself, come morning).
Outside, the garden is lush and generous:
Bejewelled and extravagant in diamonds:
Snug in wintry,
Holding promises aplenty:
All reflected in Impressionist-painted puddles:
Inside there’s a slow Sunday roast dinner cooking, courtesy of the Mr, kids snoozing on bean bags, time to fall head over heels with the therapeutic quality of a zillion french knots. Time to breathe.