Gerry
03-19-2008, 12:05 PM
There is s till a distinct chill in the air as we head up the hill today and the spring showers have just been and coated everywhere with a liberal layer of rain to make the slipping and sliding easier as I climb the hill. The weather man on the TV this morning was warned that we are in for a cold snap in a few days time and I was wondering what part of Lapland he lives in if he thinks this isn't already cold. I suppose you should never trust a weather forecaster in deerskin boots. coat and furry hat.
With the watery sun to my back not brining any heat to my chilled bones and a smattering of grey clouds moping about like a gang of hoodies just loitering about looking for something to mess with I step up the pace hoping to generate some heat of my own and avoid getting rained on. In the blue breaks high above I hear the thunderous roar of silver dots as they streak across the Atlantic leaving a trail of pollution in their slip stream. How innocent those fluffy white lines look as the wind breaks them up and scatters them into the clouds. Forty thousand feet above my head but drowning out the birds singing in the trees.
There's one group of birds even the trans Atlantic jets can't silence on a morning like this. Building their nests so high in the skeletal trees the branches look invisible as they hold up those big black bruisers of nests. The whole group of trees has been home to these noisy neighbours for many years and some older nests now lower down are robbed by the hard working rooks building their new penthouse apartments. The view from up there would make every estate agents wallet groan to bursting point.
Thankfully my little nest is well down the hill and out of earshot of the constant cackle cawing and crying of these black builders. I can hear it calling me home now. I can smell aroma of the lunch warming in the saucepan. I can feel my tummy grumbling and gurgling. There's a spot of rain hitting me gently on the face.
I'm off.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright March 2008
With the watery sun to my back not brining any heat to my chilled bones and a smattering of grey clouds moping about like a gang of hoodies just loitering about looking for something to mess with I step up the pace hoping to generate some heat of my own and avoid getting rained on. In the blue breaks high above I hear the thunderous roar of silver dots as they streak across the Atlantic leaving a trail of pollution in their slip stream. How innocent those fluffy white lines look as the wind breaks them up and scatters them into the clouds. Forty thousand feet above my head but drowning out the birds singing in the trees.
There's one group of birds even the trans Atlantic jets can't silence on a morning like this. Building their nests so high in the skeletal trees the branches look invisible as they hold up those big black bruisers of nests. The whole group of trees has been home to these noisy neighbours for many years and some older nests now lower down are robbed by the hard working rooks building their new penthouse apartments. The view from up there would make every estate agents wallet groan to bursting point.
Thankfully my little nest is well down the hill and out of earshot of the constant cackle cawing and crying of these black builders. I can hear it calling me home now. I can smell aroma of the lunch warming in the saucepan. I can feel my tummy grumbling and gurgling. There's a spot of rain hitting me gently on the face.
I'm off.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright March 2008