Wednesday, September 22, 2021

Last Light

The last light at the dam, with our beloved Wolfie looking noble. He looks noble very well. I suspect he could be as dim as any other dog - but gentleness and a venerable look disguise it well. 

It was a case of a few minutes making all the difference - we missed the sunset and it was too early for the moonrise, but the gloaming was peaceful, with both light and weather gentle. 



One day, I may recover from my unruly love of thistles, but I suspect it will not be any day soon...

Their exuberance in the evening light continues to entrance me, the way the gossamer softness soaks up the last of the sunlight continues to entrance. Feral weed - yes, but so so lovely. 


Vines & New Life

Going outside to hang out the washing I passed under our grape vine - barren all winter the first leaves were appearing and caught the light. 

I am a little bit infatuated with the curlicues and tendrils. They look so festive. I keep meaning to go outside and trim down some of the excess, to make crowns and wreaths, but as yet time has alluded me. In my head, they look beautiful. 

For now, I admire the new leaves of spring and wonder if this year I'll bag the grapes early enough to protect them from their many admirers. 


Friday, September 3, 2021

Pondering the thoughts of a Spider

I'm unsure why I never noticed the stunning artistry of spiders to such an obsessive extent before. 

Perhaps because their work is best observed, dew-garlanded, sun-illumined, at dawn, and times I've walked at dawn I've generally been intent upon the sea? 

Perhaps because I've been too busy with other obsessions? 

Now, when my main reflection time is the early morning, before the heat and rush kick in, their silent work, their busy presence, the wonder of their creations, constantly uplifts and fascinates me. 

I wonder why their are not more poems, songs, art work, about the wonder of their intricate webs, how sometimes multitudes of spiders, sometimes spiders of different types, will cover a branch or bush or stand of grass in a palace of (deadly) webs. 

It seems a curious irony that if the web fulfils its main purpose - to obtain food - it will be broken. 

And I wonder at a spiders' thoughts when their constructions are maimed and destroyed by errant flying seeds or leaves, passing animals, or tempestuous weather. Do instincts merely propel them to begin again, or do they grumble to themselves and bemoan their fate?