Good Descriptive Writing ~ from The Infinities by John Banville

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• He sees it in raw April weather, a rinsed blue sky with smudges of cloud, ice-white, bruise-grey, fawn.

• Spring winds flow through the streets like weightless water.  The blued air of April.  The trees tremble, their wet black branches powdered with puffs of green.  A strong gust pummels the window-panes, making them shiver and throw off lances of light.

• Reclining on a strew of pillows in the morning's plum-blue twilight.

• Through gaps in the hedge he catches glimpses of gorse bushes yellowy aflame on the low hillsides, and in the hollows there are lingering blurs of morning mist.

• I am admiring the gorse blossom:  it is truly glorious, a froth of buttery gold over the hillsides and along the hedgerows.

• She recalls the dampish light, the smells of moss and musty water, the sunlight a spiked glare of white gold and a swarm of tiny, translucent flies busily weaving an invisible design above the water of the well.

• Outside, the air has turned to the colour of inky water.

• It's long past noon and a hazy stillness has settled over the fields.  The trees stand seething in the heat.  The air is grey-blue and lax.  Everything shimmers.

• From the shaded within, all that is without the high awning of glass, the trees, the sunlight, that broad strip of cerulean  sky seems a raucous carnival.

• When Adam cuts into the chicken a sigh of steam escapes from the moist aperture between singed skin and moistly creamy flesh.

It Takes Two to Tango

 

I love Tango music.

It makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

Shopping the other day  a busker was playing the Tango on his accordion.  It was all I could do to stop myself dancing as I passed.

A Mothy Nightmare

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I slept with the window open - the day had been hot, the night humid.  A moth must have flown in.  It landed on my face.  I have a thing about moths - a childhood fear.  I swatted it away in the dark but it landed on my chest.  I lifted the covers and shook them.  It's gone, I thought, and drifted back to sleep.

Later I woke and felt its tickling feet and fluttering wings on my stomach - I sat up in alarm and threw the covers back once more to allow it to escape.  Uneasy now that it was still entombed under the covers.

I must have drifted off again.

The next morning I looked for evidence of squashed moth - surely it couldn't have survived a night under the covers with me.

There was nothing, no evidence that it had ever been there.  No moth dust or squashed wings.  Nothing.  Had I been dreaming after all.

I check the ceiling - there is a moth up there, wings closed, snoozing - could that be the one that had caused my sleepless night - if so, how did it survive my nocturnal thrashings.

Please don't do it again.  My nerves are in shreds.

As The Crow Flies

Mama Crow spends a lot of time in my garden, perching on the apex of the greenhouse roof or on the head of my little boy statue.  Sometimes her two offspring come with her, noisy and raucous.  I guess she is teaching them about survival; that this is a place to come for food - a piece of bread to dunk in the bird bath, or a few dropped seeds around the bird table.

She visits several times a day, hoping for more titbits.  It is in her territory now after spending the winter on my lawn carrying away apples and bread; bringing  with her a few companions.  Just her, then two more, then five - word having got round that there were easy pickings.

Looking totally out of place amongst the smaller birds - she is too big for my little patch; but she waits patiently, sometimes flying off to perch on the runner bean arch - but never far away.  It only takes minutes for her to realise I have left breakfast out for her - and there she is - appearing out of nowhere. 

I watch as she scratches her beak with pointed claw; then stretches her wing and leg simultaneously like a ballerina at the barre; shuffles her feathers which settle black and glossy into their proper place; sleek and close fitting. 

I look out for her - and she looks out for me.

Freewheeling

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The open road calls.  I have a new pair of wheels.  It is a while since I rode a bicycle - my old one is pretty much clapped out.  After years of service it has finally been given the boot.  As I mount my new 'steed' I feel a little tremor of excitement and nervousness that shivers through me.  I wobble a little at first, apprehensive as cars drive past - too close, too fast.  But soon I get into my stride and remember the feeling of freedom and space as I pedal along - the leg muscles recall how it used to be and serve me well.

The test drive went pretty well considering.  I had to dismount once or twice while my beating heart settled into a steady rhythm after the exertion of the hills - but I managed to keep going despite the setbacks - it felt good to be back in the saddle again.

Hopefully I will become a familiar figure once more - pootling along the lanes on my mint-coloured bicycle - what larks!

It is curious that with the advent of the automobile and the airplane, the bicycle is still with us.  Perhaps people like the world they can see from a bike, or the air they breathe when they're out on a bike.  Or they like the bicycle's simplicity and the precision with which it is made.  Or because they like the feeling of being able to hurtle through air one minute, and saunter through a park the next, without leaving behind clouds of choking exhaust, without leaving so much as a footstep. ~ Gurdon S. Leete

Extract from England for all Seasons

 

 

The best kind of rain of course is a cozy rain.  This is the rain that falls on a day when you'd just as soon stay in bed a little longer, write letters or read a good book by the fire, take early tea with hot scones and jam, and look out the streaked window with complacency. ~ Susan Allen Toth

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Quote from Veronique Vienne

The only difference between an extraordinary life and an ordinary one is the extraordinary pleasures you find in ordinary things. ~ Veronique Vienne