Chaos indicators

 The wind shooshes, with an occasional moan; recruits rain to tippy-tap the panes. I stand and watch leaves circulate the garden. Above these dripping canopies, village jackdaws tumble, fight to smooth the chaos with their wings, reflect the dances of the leaves. Focussing between, fine drops swirl and dance like wind-tunnel smoke, like extinguished fireflies in rapture.

The old ways

 On impulse, an unfamiliar word takes me from lap-top to office to consult the Collin's. It's an old usage, not one I trust to the Internet where spellings get casually Americanised. The much thumbed volume buzzes as I pick a point to crack it; I strike five pages past my word. A familiar book, a friend in my hands; present from a near forgotten aunt who had an eye, one anniversary, for what I needed, rather than what I wanted. I take the opportunity of the break to freshen tea, watching down the garden, smelling her carpet, warmed by a sun fifty years younger.

Up my nose

My evening of food and online gambling promotions was interrupted last night by an advert for scent; bloody Christmas is coming. First though we have to climb over the festering corpse of "present or pathogen" evening.

Third season blues, and whites, and reds, yellows, orange...

 I force myself still.

Spin slowly, watching clouds form,

To the trill of birds.

Faux pas

Fresh, across the heath; the sun slanting down, or, more commonly, lighting the long mackerel cloud ribbons from behind, like the chest X-rays of uncoiled pythons.

Only out to loosen cobwebs, I cut corners, making a diagonal to the path’s triangle. Here, wartime cultivation has left a landscape of narrow ridge and furrow; spongy underfoot, now the hot, dry weather has moved on, tending to puddle in the dips.

I took to leaping these linear lakes across my way and, as they grew wider, I picked up speed into a loping run, carrying me from crest to crest. I was just considering the interesting juxtaposition of the ridged ground and the lenticular sky, when I found myself half propped on an elbow, gazing upwards, feeling water gently seeping into my trousers. I soon got up.

I skulked and dripped home, squeezing muddy streams from my cuffs, feeling more water drip from my back down my legs. The clouds were losing their keen edged definition, morphing from bones to the end of the cheddar, after the grater has passed.

I took my jumper into the shower, still smiling at my foolishness.

Inundation

The puddles never really go away. All through the desiccating summer’s sun, they wait patiently for a sea-change, for the slow turn of the season, or a fortuitous sudden torrent, to brim them, even briefly. Their stock in trade is patience and versatility; in drought they make collections: dusty dirt, cigarette ends, sweet wrappers, the disarticulated bird bones of roadkill, ironic plastic drink containers. Stoically, they persist, always there.

I walked out yesterday, finding a lull in the rain, which lasted until I reached the shops. Puddles full; puddles shore to shore with battling concentric rings from fellow drops, late to the scene. Roadside puddles edging towards their kin, striving against the press of passing tyres to link rivulets across the central lines. Lawn puddles, forming mini lakes, grass stems pushing round their rims like mangrove in miniature.

Across the green they link their limbs; become seeps that beget trickles, trickles forming streams, overflowing the beck. Water plays its own game outside the puddles; tumbling down to seas where sun and wind begin their play anew.

Water reveals all the old puddles, like friends forgotten in fair weather. A monstrous on-road, off-road carbon oxidiser visits the long puddle by a local hotel and its waves wash my feet. “Muppet” I cry to his oblivious, receding tailgate. I look down to watch the waters refold, reflow back into their temporary sanctuary, wet fingers grasping into cracked pavement, washing back to await the next car, or the tide.

Spit, but careful of the direction

No respite from the North Westerly blowing down Hurst Spit this morning. At the end of a warm September though, it’s hardly keen; not yet cutting; just inclined to rifle through your pockets if you stand too still. Walking back, into the head-wind, the sun reflects off the white cliffs of Old Harry Rocks, off the white reefs of P&O’s redundant fleet. Out where the tide is rippling over the Shingles Bank, streaks of white topped waves show where shallows lurk, but on the shore, the surf is barely up, with the gentle rocking motions of a sea unstirred.

Small pools of birds ripple away at my approach, knot, plovers, dunlin. On the lake side, a small raptor rides the slope lift, keeping low; my mind says ‘hobby’, but I’m unsure. More certain of the pair of ravens that watch me intelligently, wondering if taking flight is worth all the trouble, before flapping lazily, pretending not to care.

There’s negotiation at the bridge now. Anti-viral concern gives us pause, like the sudden introduction of mini-roundabouts. I cross, swiftly, aware of the ticking probing beaks of more plovers, unaware of our concerns, thinking only of the next stone turned. My hands, my face, are cool, but a warmth suffuses me.