Wind

It's been so windy these last few days! The poor chickens roll around their run like soft white tumbleweed until they find the sense to take cover in their house and the sheep huddle together in a tight shield wall under the trees. The trees themselves have been shedding their load all over the garden and out onto the hill beyond; a tangled mass of branches, leaves and woody flotsam strewn far and wide. And the cat doesn't know what to do with himself. He howls continually and takes manic flying leaps from one room to another, scraping at the wind-tossed leaves through the windows.

There's nowhere you can go to escape it. It howls through the vents in the windows, a wild man of the hill seeking entry. It spews dust and leaves under the back door and churns the leaf-clogged stream. The weathermen say it is almost done, that after tonight it will have burnt itself out and be a spent force, but there is no let up so far. So we sit tight and wait. 

A Whole New Year

It's been a long time since I last picked up this diary.

Four months to be exact. The zenith of our English summer, although it seems August is becoming ever more frequently a mash of wind and rain that batters the beautiful blooms of June and July. I remember sitting in our living room looking out at the mud being churned by our small flock of sheep, watching the huddled feathery balls that are our few chickens cowering under their house, and reaching to flick on the light as the room got gloomy and cold. August.

Martin's mother died that month. It was a shock, she was still young. There was so much to do and suddenly life wasn't the same for any of us, hence this diary got pushed to the back of a drawer. I couldn't talk to anyone, not even to its quiet pages. But I find myself lifting its cover once more and mulling over the next entry which I hope will be full of hope and new life.

It's January 2nd now. A brand new year. Let's move on.