Seashell Roar
It's that time of the year again.
The sun is suspended in the sky over fields of ripening wheat and trees of the truest green. Long snakes of red-eyed traffic snarl their ways over the hills and the haze hangs low as the thermometer climbs.
In the garden, all is ripening, bold and bounteous. The smell of fertile soil lingers like lust on the air, and the splendour of leaf and petal is a romantic symphony to life itself.
The good gold sun is in my eye and I can feel my muscles tautening with the honest hard work I've been doing indoors and out.
It is the time of turning outward. It is the season of endeavour, of adventure, of migration and sweet lazy love.
It's summer. A whole flock of little birds told me.
I'm on the wing, too. I'll talk to you when I get back, if I've got anything much to say.
Hark, the seashell roar of a blogful of silence.
Peace,
D.
The sun is suspended in the sky over fields of ripening wheat and trees of the truest green. Long snakes of red-eyed traffic snarl their ways over the hills and the haze hangs low as the thermometer climbs.
In the garden, all is ripening, bold and bounteous. The smell of fertile soil lingers like lust on the air, and the splendour of leaf and petal is a romantic symphony to life itself.
The good gold sun is in my eye and I can feel my muscles tautening with the honest hard work I've been doing indoors and out.
It is the time of turning outward. It is the season of endeavour, of adventure, of migration and sweet lazy love.
It's summer. A whole flock of little birds told me.
I'm on the wing, too. I'll talk to you when I get back, if I've got anything much to say.
Hark, the seashell roar of a blogful of silence.
Peace,
D.
posted by David Newland at 22.6.07
1 Comments:
"It is the time of turning outward. It is the season of endeavor, of adventure, of migration and sweet lazy love."
I take this to heart.
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