The Quiet Magic …


This is low-fog. Somehow alive, it rests it’s slow-roiling belly on roof tiles. Is held off the damp ground beneath by winter-naked trees and the sodium-flower headed lamp post. It’s streamers festoon the dark, glistening branches of the copse canopy, the double hedge that brackets the sunken path that heads down to the brook and back.


The air between the new-ploughed field and the base of the shifting fog sparkles with a gentle magic. It is suddenly a pool of air made thicker liquid by the lid of clinging vapour above it. Light has a different quality. Visibility is restricted and hampered. Sound is dulled and distorted. Distances confusing. The Dexter cattle, dark against it are different without the oaks behind them. The barbed wire fence they scratch against looks more severe. I am looking at, walking in a different world. I have to check realities, adjust my view. What I see is not what I am expecting. Indeed I know what is hidden, but just cannot see it: the tree-lined slope, the horse pastures (where the fallow deer sometimes graze), the disused barn, with collapsing roof. The familiar and usual is neither in these moments.

In the back garden our season’s first (and late for the year) redwing dips and shimmies, taking water from the garden pond. There’s another dozen or so migrants, perhaps a fieldfare or two, busy burgling bright berries from the holly tree next-door.

 Then, just the right side of shrill the confident tune of a robin, concealed nearby but still invisible to me, floats and echoes across this trapped world. Fills it. The sun-dawn light pinks new edges of gaps in the fog bank above, beginning to break through. The sky, so far away suddenly is pale blue.

Just starting to feel the chill, I will remain a little longer. This peace will not last forever. I will take what I can, while I can.


2 responses to this post.

  1. Lovely use of language here. Sue


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

The Good Life Crewe

Adventures in the life of an English allotment


Garden Blog of the Year 2016

Allotment Life

Welcome to my world: digging, harvesting and other stuff

How to Provide

for your family

Crockern Farm

The evolution of an old farmhouse, an American woman, an Englishman and their dog.

Green lights ahead

If you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be headed right now?


boots of salt and plow blades


blowing through the cobwebs of my mind

Milenanik3's Blog

Just another weblog

Karina Pinella

Writing the Wrong, Right, and Ridiculous

tea & paper

... it's all about feelings ...


Life after the Care Farm

The Cynical Gardener

The most Dangerous plant to sleep under is the water lilly


Local History for Great Wyrley and Surrounding Areas

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

lone sea-breaker

introspection & reflection, poetry & prose

%d bloggers like this: