We are not amused.
It is too hot.
I am an English gardener, not a sun worshipper – not a sitter-on-beaches or a basker-in-parks interloper. I should be at rest only during the harshest winter (after a long year’s work), and yet, here I am, not in the garden…
I hide in shade or lurk in cold baths, flashing mossy fangs at people suggesting social events during daylight hours. I don’t mind a summer thunderstorm – how can one resist the decadence of storms? When the cling-film sunshine is overcome by the velvet of actual weather? – But the sun these days is a bully.
Like the grass, I turn brittle in the heat. A newt left out on a paving slab. A dry seed-head rattled by the kick of a leaping grasshopper – legs scraping like nails on a comb. Everything papery and stubbled.
We islanders talk a good game about craving the sunshine, but we still need our regular watering…
I begin to dream seriously of Elsewhere.
The soul makes a katabasis. The mind dips deep below the surface, and in a cool place, shimmers. For everything there is a waiting time. Enforced stillness. Lessons whispered in the breath between phrases.
This, I suppose, makes the intensity lovely.
Great image. Too much of a good thing is how I’d describe our current spell of weather but I’d rather have the heat than all the snow and ice of last winter.
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I cannot agree more. I am ready for rain and a cool front, it’s not pleasant to garden in this heat. 😊
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Don’t come to ‘New’ England because we are cooking in the heat and humidity. We’re on week two of 90 plus, feeling like >100. I have been stripping sod in the morning, and it’s still killing me. 🙂
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I’m feeling you Judy!
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