Joys of Winter

Enchanting is the word, carol!

Butty, I'm glad my little story had a pleasant effect. Serenity is a good thing to aim for, I always feel. Achieving it is something else ! xx

Gally I also live in a sweet little cottage, and we have wrens nipping in and out of the raised beds and my herb pots which are beside the glass back door. If the dog can keep quiet and not growl at them, they busy themselves just feet away, and I could watch them for ages - they're enchanting!

Been bashing around everywhere today, and am home, at last, to enjoy with my mug, some Joys of Winter.

bagitha - I don't know quite how to put this, but when I read your post it left me feeling completely 'stilled'. Just lovely.

I always think of little Wrens as secretive - tucked away in tiny places - but they certainly do have a voice.

Wrens are one of my favourites too. Lovely to see one so close, gally!

I like their perky tails and the fact that such a loud sound comes out of such a small boid.
Also their name: troglodytes troglodytes - cavedweller cavedweller

Gally Jenny Wrens are so neat and nifty...

I'm trying not to move while writing this - the dearest wee wren is pecking away about 2 feet from me (on the other side of the glass) under the abandoned Christmas tree. Many years ago we moved to a tiny cottage which I renamed Wren Cottage (on account of its size) and that first year we had wrens nesting in the porch. I think they must be my most favourite bird. Good thing I didn't rename this house after an eagle

bagitha that was fun

'Twas dark on the walk to school today,
Well, not quite dark, but not light either,
But then we saw three rubber ducks on the loch –
Little grebes really, but they bob up like rubber ducks –
So we crossed over the shore road
To watch them bobbing.
DD said: They're there and then they're not there
As we watched them dive and bob and dive again.
The song comes to mind:
"Rubber duckie, you're the one,
You make bath-time lots of fun,
Rubber duckie, you're my very best friend, it's true,
Vo-vo-dee-O."
Such cheering creatures .
Then, back home, feeding the hens,
It cheered me to see
The one at the bottom of the pecking order
Rush in undeterred for the cheese 'worms' I gave them.
She got most of them
So the others could muscle in on the grain
And I didn't mind.
And as they ate, in flew
Three dozen or so chaffinches
And dodged between chicken feet
Pinching food, along with a blackbird,
A great tit and a dunnock or two.
Seeing small creatures making the most of life
Is good for us.

And I'm really glad you were able to see it with your new eyes, super! So glad all went well at Gartnaval. xx

super - you have such a way wiv words!!

Yes, thank you, super. It really is like that just there. And elsewhere in this beautiful land.

That was a real treat to read super - and it's real treat to have you back!

Supernana... articles about David Hockney (who happens to be my favourite artist) everywhere. He talks about 'seeing' colours which you obviously do too. Lovely word pictures, taking my mind off a nagging headache.... thanks!

Wonderful word picture, super. Your poem 'steals the breath away'!

butter a very special word picture.

Travelling through the
Rest and Be Thankful
sparks of sunlight
dance on the pure waters
cascading down the mountainside.
Ribbons of pewter grey shadow
loop across and inbetween the crags -
over which gossamer mists
play games of hide and seek.
Nature's brush dips into pots of liquid gold,
burnished bronze and endless shades of green
to create a picture
that steals the breath away...

Oops - I meant mine

Oh yes! Lovely

Mind too, bagitha. Whenever I hear it I always have to look up!

Love it, Butter. I can see and shiver with that 'cold and hunched buzzard'.

That's lovely, butty. I can feel the cold! A buzzard's cry is one of my favourite wild sounds.

You have an amazing ability to make me feel as though I am seeing what you are seeing butternut

Rich farmers' fields
An endless sea of roughly rippled chocolate
Tipped and twinkling
With twisted filigree,
Of silver and platinum fronds
Against a mauve orange horizon
Grazed with smoky mists of late dawn
Bordered by old man's beard
In the winter's sparse hedgerow
Tightened and closed
In frozen and fragile puffs
And entwined in a bramble embrace
Then a shock of stark white breast
A flash of beaded yellow
As a cold and hunched buzzard
Slowly lifted itself
And wheeled away
And cried it's cry
Of beauty.