Those lazy, heavy drips on my roof.
The hills tucked snugly into a duvet of mist. Grass slumped across the path, heavy with seed and rain.
A kettle simmering on the stove.
Today promised a bright start, and there was a celebratory air.
Like a coronation...
The earth itself is gloriously warm.
I pulled my garlic and some shallots last week. They are now drying in my cold frame. Neither are big, but their stems were shrivelled and yellow, and all that lay ahead was rot & mold.
So I trowelled the soil, like mixing a cake, and sought seed to sow. Spinach, turnips, and beetroot. And some onions. I love growing little encampments of onions.
Gardeners hold hope in their hearts. They dabble and sow and hoe and weed, in a perpetual cycle of hope and love and trust and stubbornness.
A lot of long-suffering growers are near despair this year. Not just the small dedicated nurserymen, but even mechanised, magnate supermarket suppliers.
Its not the rain. Or those wild blustery winds.
What's missing is assured Masculine Power:
that great, assertive male energy, the Sun, to come in enough to dry the Earth's tears.
The fusion of his assuring brilliance with her emotional expression is the magic that lights the green fuse, initiating that natural firework display of growth and flowering and the setting of seed.
So think Sun. Sing Sun. Dream heat. Send Love to the Earth, to help calm her tears.
Let the Raindance come to an end
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