It was just last week. The day was breathless, still dry and still hot like all the previous July days of this summer. Definitely not a time for venturing to the sea, to mingle amongst crowds of holidaymakers, sweating and pushing their way to the Cornish ice cream vendors.
No, I chose the vast stillness of Bodmin moor and finding a few stunted sycamores for shade, picnicked in peace with an old friend. Then making the most of my companion’s postprandial nap, I wandered nearby with camera for whatever instantly caught my eye. Grasses and traditional stone walling, wildflowers going to seed
Scarlet Crocosmia looking out of place though adding a continental look to these moorland lakes which are actually reservoirs and markedly lower than full capacity. And how beautiful the cracked earth, bleached like china clay
“The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time…
The second half of my life will be …
a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.”Extract from Joyce Sutphen’s “Crossroads”
PoetryPix 