Behind Angelina’s garden the hills are alive with things that dart, skip, float, sway, creep and sting. A brown snake curls itself into a gap in the wall. From that moment I see them everywhere. Green black beetles, wasps, bees the size of golf balls, flowering thyme, pink orchids, violet scabious flowers, birdsfoot trefoil, blue butterflies and a cow. We meet, stare at each other – It wins, I scarper. In the village I take a look at the information board. I can’t read what it says but I recognise a drawing of a wolf and a bear…….
Lesions of lichened stone rain these fields. I lie in a hollow, a shallow scrape of earth bedded in clover and buttercups and the hill holds me still. Cow bells, chainsaws, dogs barking, church bells dawdle on the warm breeze. A pair of orange butterflies tumble . I hold in my hand a piece of lead glazed pot, turned green in the firing. A cuckoo calls my name.
I almost stand on it, sitting in the doorway like that. Without my glasses first thing in the morning I think it must be some mud I brought in on my shoes yesterday. Something says its not though. I step over it, fetch my glasses and peer down at the scorpion. Funny wee thing. I fetch the broom and gently sweep it away. It raises its tiny angry fists at me. Scolds me. I desist, leave it be. It goes back to its business, muttering… Upstairs I hear the crow tapping on the kitchen window, impatiently, insistently, furiously. I feel sure its beak will shatter the glass. I open the window to watch it fly away only to land in a puff of pollen on the branch of the walnut tree. We look at each other. Yes, what ? It flies away to the hill where I walk every day. No not today, I am here, washing and cleaning and trying to find words.
Three drawings – ink on paper -A4 landscape.
Above the wood on the plateau a battlefield of bleached bones of stones. Walls wide, thick coarse mortar dusts where green lizards flick their tails and disappear. I try whistling a blade of grass, clamped between thumbs I blow. Silence. I try again and then remember I don’t speak the language. In patches of bare earth shards of pottery, the grooves in the clay still visible from the wheel. A rim, a lip. My fingers touch where someones once did a thousand thousand moons ago.
up, up, stones, clear, cut, sharp. Lime stone. Poking through. Walls run hither, thither, back and forthing. White lines zig-zagging. Thunder draws a bow, releases fat curds of wetness, shelling the earth with the flowers of spring that trickle down the hillside. The walls bring us out past windows shuttered, notices of deaths in the houses roundabout. The coda. Returning along another path we meet kisses, soft, quick voices and birdsong.
Many thanks Tracy for a wonderful walk in the sun and the rain sharing this beautiful landscape.