Wild June ended much as it had begun: sitting with Eddie under the vastness of the Norfolk sky. It was evening, the violet hour.
It was quieter now than it was 30 days back. The cuckoos have departed. The warblers raise their voices only occasionally. A song thrush was singing well but without urgency. The year had gone to seed.
How strange that we use this expression to mean a falling away from perfection, the beginning of decay, the onset of death. Why does a plant live and photosynthesise and transpire and flower, if not to produce seeds?
Seeds are the plant’s quest for immortality: its bid to become an ancestor by making more plants. The year was going to seed in the same way, some of the plants already doing so quite literally. We were moving from promise in the direction of achievement
Singing is only ever just the start. We were now into the middle section: the raising and fledging of young. Going over, the gardener’s say: but going over is whole point.
The solstice has passed, Wild June was ending but the end brought consolation, for Wild July was following hard upon it.
I have blogged every wild day of Wild June: so there’s a first. Lockdown had made for a great concentration on what’s right in front of us.
Every year at this time I resolve to blog more often: every wild day is a good day, no matter what month it falls in. Meanwhile, many thanks to all who have read and responded to what Eddie and I have put up in the last 30 days.
A swift shot across the sky. Who wrote that it was as if an archer had fired the bow instead of the arrow? Eddie and I went back to the house. We would do more wild things tomorrow. Maybe even write about them.