Wordless Wednesday - After the Rain

Thursday Poem - To The Rain

Mother rain, manifold, measureless,
falling on fallow, on field and forest,
on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,
downwelling waters all-washing, wider
than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster
than countrysides, calming, recalling:
return to us, teaching our troubled
souls in your ceaseless descent
to fall, to be fellow, to feel to the root,
to sink in, to heal, to sweeten the seas.

Ursula K. Le Guin, from So Far So Good

Sequestered, 358 (CCCLVIII)

Wordless Wednesday - Early Morning Rain

Sequestered, Week 316 (CCCXVI)

After the Rain

Thursday Poem - To the Rain

Mother rain, manifold, measureless,

falling on fallow, on field and forest,

on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,

downwelling waters all-washing, wider

than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster

than countrysides, calming, recalling:

return to us, teaching our troubled

souls in your ceaseless descent

to fall, to be fellow, to feel to the root,

to sink in, to heal, to sweeten the seas.

Ursula K. Le Guin, from So Far So Good

Wordless Wednesday - Raining, Greenly

Rain and Robins Returning

Skies are cloudy, and a gentle rain is falling outside the windows. Beau and I are doing tea and listening to raindrops hitting the roof of the garden shed in a fine staccato rhythm, to clumps of snow falling off the peaked rooflines of nearby houses. The watery motifs of two seasons are rolled into one this soggy morning.

Mr. B. does not care much for wet weather, and he is curled up in a corner of the sofa, grumbling. He does, however, appreciate a fine puddle, and there are lagoons in the village deep enough and wide enough for him to swim around in circles. That will cheer him up immensely when we go out for a walk later.

A murmuration of starlings is hanging out in the cedar hedge, and the wily birds are pretending they are something else entirely, cardinals, robins, house finches, song sparrows. What is wrong with just being a starling? A few robins are back, and they have been visiting the garden this week. At sunrise, one was perched high in the ash in the corner, singing his (or her) pleasure in the day and calling for more rain.

Perhaps it is time for a new wreath on the front door, something with sprigs of pussy willow and eggs (fake of course) in pastel colours. Rain or no, a graceful nod to Eostre and a small ritual gesture of some sort is called for.

Wordless Wednesday - November Rain and Bokeh

After the Rain

Wordless Wednesday - After the Rain

Early Morning Rain

In My Cups and Loving It

Rain on the windows etches linenfold panels on the glass panes and splatter paints the umbrella out on the deck. The garden and old trees beyond are barely visible in the downpour and the murk. Water hitting the roof tiles, running through the eaves and downspout and gushing into the rain barrel at the corner of the house is a pleasing sound. We are a long way from the Bay of Bengal for such seasonal weather phenomena, but this day has a monsoon vibe, and no mistake.

One of my great aunties, I can't remember which one, used to refer to spells of uncontrolled weeping and wailing as "having monsoons", and the phrase has stayed with me since I heard it years ago. Having monsoons is surely a more graceful way of describing unsightly displays of whining, caterwauling and waterworks.

On this side of the windows is a stack of journals, mostly blank because they are too lovely for my scrawling and hen scratching. There too are pens, a candle in a jar and a beaker holding a fragrant lagoon of Darjeeling, also a couple of tarot/oracle decks. The art glass chandelier above the table turns everything on its surface into tiles and tesserae and little squares of light. Looking at it, I am off and thinking of mosaics.

Gardening in such weather is out of the question, and I have to do something. This is a good day for reorganizing bookshelves, art and stationery cupboards, for reordering the multitudinous folders on this computer. It is also grand day for drinking tea and reading, for rocking gently along with Scarlatti's keyboard sonatas, the Mozart horn concertos, the Bach preludes and  anything at all by Antonio Vivaldi. Also, the Mediaeval Baebes and the Kingsfold Suite.

Tucked somewhere in the midst of such lovely pursuits are bowls of fresh strawberries and peaches, a batch of molasses cookies, scones and a loaf of sourdough. Having a day like this once in a while is no' a bad thing.

Friday Ramble - Clouds in My Cuppa

Clouds, cooler mornings, rain and fog were our lot this week. Oilskins and rubber boots waited by the door for soggy excursions to the park, and a towel dangled from a nearby newel post, ready to dry Beau's fingers and toes when he came in from the garden.

Through the kitchen window comes the smell of rain and wet earth as I sip my mug of tea, the sound of branches in the garden shedding their cloaks of wetness, jubilant robins in the overstory singing down more life giving precipitation. There is never enough rain for them, and they are singing up a fine, drenching drizzle. 

In the darkling street, umbrellas bloom like peonies, carried by village children off to school with their parents, older siblings, and occasionally the family dog. There is the swish of early commuters splashing through lovely deep puddles when they think nobody is looking, the resonant grumble of village buses, the soft growl of motor vehicles heading uptown for the day's roiling and toiling. 

On our early morning walks in the park, trees float into view like the masts of wooden sailing ships and then disappear again in the mist. Somewhere in the murk, blackbirds and song sparrows are exercising their vocal cords, and an unseen woodpecker (probably a pileated from the volume of its exuberant hammering) is mining a tattered birch for breakfast bugs.

My umbrella has sprung a leak or two, and sometimes we are wet when we arrive home after rainy rambles. I am hoping to find a large green cotton one to replace it, but it has to be something substantial, NOT one of those folding contraptions that succumbs to a good blow at the drop of a hat. If I had a penny for every brolly I have ever owned that preferred spending most of its time inside out, I would be rich.

Leaky umbrellas and wet collars notwithstanding, there is something restful and very soothing about rainy days. If I could climb the old maple in the garden, I would perch right up there with the thrushes, trilling for more days like these fine soggy hours just unfolding. Getting up there in oilskins and wellies might be difficult though, and what would I do with my tea and the umbrella?

Wordless Wednesday - Raining, Greenly

Thursday Poem - To the Rain

Mother rain, manifold, measureless,
falling on fallow, on field and forest,
on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,
downwelling waters all-washing, wider
than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster
than countrysides, calming, recalling:
return to us, teaching our troubled
souls in your ceaseless descent
to fall, to be fellow, to feel to the root,
to sink in, to heal, to sweeten the seas.

Ursula K. Le Guin, from So Far So Good

Wordless Wednesday - After the Rain

Winter Rain

Seeing Red