Rose bowl

Yesterday I finally got back to Florence at 9.30. Got the taxi driver to drop me at a pizzeria. The warm night air heavy with jasmine.

In the morning out to the house. The roses are at their peak, cherries ready for eating, wild strawberries running amok and the potatoes seem to have pulled through despite the blight.

The grasses and meadow herbs rampant. Four hours of cutting. Then fierce thunderstorms, lightning like a dodgy fluorescent light flickering, hailstones like bullets on the skylight. Sitting by candlelight when the electric finally went, a rush out to the car to shut the windows. Wave after wave into the small hours.