Evening Sun

“Summer, what summer?” I hear some of you ask. While much of the British Isles basked in sunshine, albeit not the promised heat wave, those of us to the west considered building an ark of Biblical proportions. The rain never seemed to end. Somehow, it seems to have rained for years, not months or weeks, grinding with ceaseless fall against the very existence of my spirit. Sometimes, I forgot how the warmth of the sun felt against my skin, or the shock of an ice cold drink, quickly gulped in an effort to cool down in the midday heat. My garden, as noted before, suffered. Yet, somehow, in the midst of what seems to be interminable rain, there came a day or two of sunshine, for I took some lovely evening walks along the paths and byways near my home. So, gentle reader, I share with you now some images rare, like gold dust, sun-kissed evenings when the pale evening sky stretched to the misty horizon, and the grey Atlantic turned blue for a while, when flowers bloomed, and birds sang their hearts out for joy.

What way leads the path,
so overgrown and little trod?

Why, it leads where you allow it,

and magic shall be yours for the asking.

A carpet of flowers and

grasses grow . . .

. . . and rabbits sound alarm!

The path winds on









into the west




. . . and coves

with hidden caves do beckon me

Be careful where you tread!
You'll squash it flat!

and beady eyes are watching!

Weigh anchor here, to spend the night

or into harbour sheltered sail . . .

. . . the moon is rising, 'tis time for weary walkers to wend their way for home!