Awoken at day-spring by a charm of tits, finches, warblers. The dawning murmuration lifting to fever pitch. Weekday mornings in a sunlit bedroom listening to the song-fowl over the mountain, chirming, chittering.
▽ | #journal
To hell with garden boundaries. More dour proscriptive tendencies to dull your senses. Singed or burned, dug or doused in herbicide, you cannot be eradicated. Your ornamentals outlast frenzies. Thrive alone for generations. Ramblers trace your cottage rose across their wracked foundations. The patron saint of outside species.
▽ | #relic
▽ | #flora
A brackish archipelago. Faint smell of sea-weed from tideless waters. Reeds and grasses billowing where polished bedrock plunges into the Baltic. A coastline of ash, beech, thick old growth oak. Stoney shores growing juniper, sloe, common heather. Linnets picking over bitter berries. Crowding scant mountain pine.
▽ | #journal
A coastal shrub layer of juniper, sloe, packed culms of matgrass. Moraine mixed of boulder, stone, gravel, sand, silt and clay. Formlessly following the underlying bedrock. Two-point-five-million year granite, tundra polished smooth and round.
▽ | #journal
A dry scrape of land reminiscent of smoke. Glacial grooves smoothed in frost-blasted granite. A shapeless moraine growing goldmoss stonecrop, purple loosestrife, seaside aster. Guarded by great black cormorants, a half-dozen species of sea-swallow terns.
▽ | #journal
A spinney thicket, copse, clumped grove. Turning to low coarse land secreting golden meadow-sweet. Care-weed tied round stout oaks, their swollen trunks split
Open mossy mouths to speak.
▽ | #journal
Fired soils crack as ancient stoneware. Amputated boughs slump to heat-kissed orchard, pale dirt. Each day another scorched earth policy. The garden blooms its pallid clumps. An open wound of chronic maladies. At least the rugged weeds in fervour, and by god the all fermenting stench. You shrug off blistered skin, but
Words cannot convey your faith in ruins.
▽ | #relic
Thinning canopy fattens soils. Dead spruce dropping bark and branches. Beset by a wood-boring sickness conceived in the plantation. Mouldering stands welcoming beetles and fungi, wasps and woodpeckers. Myriad life teeming seen and unseen. Decay. Renewal. Without end. Beginning.
▽ | #journal
▽ | #analog