Scorcher

They say the coast is mad. Our fish man who travels down from Pisa says in his imposing manner: Don’t go. Stay at home. It’s all queues and craziness.

We press on: me on the emulsion, the Boss on cleaning, shifting, tidying. The new lights arrive tomorrow. I took to the afternoon time garden under a big umbrella, watering the ailing celeriac plants, urging them to get a bloody grip and grow.

The African high pressure is back in charge. Sending a spike of super heated air across the Med. Thelight dances in my closed eyes echoed by the fireflies. The heat scores and stretches skin and dulls the brain to essentials- shade, water, forgetfulness. Swifts charge the house, ceaseless scimitars against the piled blue. I do my swift whistle, high and clear, as they clatter by.

Postscript
I hadn’t realised this was my 2000th blip. Another very solid rhythm, like a heart, knowing you are out there too, beavering away, searching for a way to make sense of it all, the delight and sadness, the light and dark, the deadly serious and absurd and flagrant beauty. Thank you to all who’ve commented and passed by. I’m maybe not as good a neighbour as I could be. But I’m here and a part of it all. Much love.