I go down into the ravine in mid-spring for the windless cool. The thistle hasn't taken over then, the grass is still unripe, the nesting blackbirds haven't formed vigilante groups yet, although one or two hang on the rock, baleful eyes and murderous smiles. "Staying long?" they rasp. "Passing through. Passing through," I say. And they nod, disbelieving.
Category: Insecta
The Year Begins
Spiders own the workshop at Alban Elfed and I don’t pick fights with them, nor even dispossess them. Far more than it will ever be mine, it is theirs. If you walk down to the shop in early August there’s a disquieting feel about the place, as though you’ve interrupted someone, letting yourself into a …
Red Cedar Wright 