Gerry
12-18-2007, 04:17 PM
Well the best way we would describe a day like that is by calling it a grand soft day. It must have been raining heavily all night as there were puddles of rain water everywhere.
As I set up the hill for my walk I was wondering should I have brought a hat with me to protect my solar panel in the event of the rain breaking out again.
As I climbed through the elderly wood I could see that the eight legged terrorists had been had at work all night spinning their silken booby traps for unsuspecting midges. But on a soft morning like this no self respecting midge would be seen dead flying about.
Another bit of bad luck for the terrorists was that the beads of moisture in the air clung to their booby traps like jewels on the neck of a princess. Even the poor eyesight of an ageing walker would see these deadly trip wires as they criss crossed the hedgerows. The terrorists would go hungry today.
As I reached the crest of the hill and looked down over the valley below there was no golden ball in the sky today. Instead the patchwork quilt of greens and browns below was covered in silver grey candy floss. Colours so vibrant yesterday where now pale and dull.
My stride lengthened as I made the downward leg of my walk and as I turned the corner of the road I could see a farmer had been busy yesterday. The field covered in dying grass had been transformed into a crumbling big fudge cake. The newly ploughed turf was as dark as only the best of premium chocolate would allow.
As I neared the bottom of the hill the sound of bird song was replaced by the tuneless tone of a poorly rehearsed children's choir coming from the church by the road. As I drew along side the doors opened and the legion of Christ's widows spilled out into the church yard before retiring to their lonely homes on the hills above. I just wondered how many decketes of sorrowful mysteries would be whistled by them in their solitude before they met again tomorrow for their daily fix of the body of Christ and human contact.
As I looked forward to my warm shower and cold drink I gave thanks for having the joy of a good woman waiting for me at home.
By Gerry Temple
As I set up the hill for my walk I was wondering should I have brought a hat with me to protect my solar panel in the event of the rain breaking out again.
As I climbed through the elderly wood I could see that the eight legged terrorists had been had at work all night spinning their silken booby traps for unsuspecting midges. But on a soft morning like this no self respecting midge would be seen dead flying about.
Another bit of bad luck for the terrorists was that the beads of moisture in the air clung to their booby traps like jewels on the neck of a princess. Even the poor eyesight of an ageing walker would see these deadly trip wires as they criss crossed the hedgerows. The terrorists would go hungry today.
As I reached the crest of the hill and looked down over the valley below there was no golden ball in the sky today. Instead the patchwork quilt of greens and browns below was covered in silver grey candy floss. Colours so vibrant yesterday where now pale and dull.
My stride lengthened as I made the downward leg of my walk and as I turned the corner of the road I could see a farmer had been busy yesterday. The field covered in dying grass had been transformed into a crumbling big fudge cake. The newly ploughed turf was as dark as only the best of premium chocolate would allow.
As I neared the bottom of the hill the sound of bird song was replaced by the tuneless tone of a poorly rehearsed children's choir coming from the church by the road. As I drew along side the doors opened and the legion of Christ's widows spilled out into the church yard before retiring to their lonely homes on the hills above. I just wondered how many decketes of sorrowful mysteries would be whistled by them in their solitude before they met again tomorrow for their daily fix of the body of Christ and human contact.
As I looked forward to my warm shower and cold drink I gave thanks for having the joy of a good woman waiting for me at home.
By Gerry Temple