|why would a bluetit nest be in an abandoned bag? Why not?|
We popped out when the first drops
tapped the water’s surface, ever so polite.
A glider’s wings bowed as it took its tight,
curved flight to keep the lift. The rain had stopped.
Climbing, the glider faded into cloud.
A buzzard mewed. The church bells
pealed, though muted by the trees; the swelling
blackbirds’ song was no less loud,
though out of time, this afternoon
so long before the dusk; they knew
what we would learn; it’s not too soon
for singing, when a storm is due.
And then it poured; but as we dashed,Such a hot day yesterday! Everyone was out doing. A red kite drifted over. Then a thunderstorm hit. After I'd got all my pictures under cover, I tried to write a poem describing the first time this year I'd smelt that smell you get when it rains on warm roads and paths. It's been given the name petrichor, which I suppose is a composite of the greek words for stone and the blood of the gods. But I don't like it.
The warm earth's breath said May, at last.