Roaring Water

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw:

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

Wild-tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae:

While bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day…


Robert Burns


November colour

Burns could have been describing the last ten days of weather. The recent squalls and storms; tearing the leaves from the reluctant trees. Stripping the pines of their cones, whipping the leaves from the birch and beeches.

Borrowed boots

Tumbling leaves scattered across the garden to settle in deep brown drifts against the tufted grass and fences. Dark grey skies heavy with rain burst open over the sodden ground. Pouring off the hill, spilling over ditches, charging down the roadways, pooling in the pastures, flooding the unfortunates inhabiting low lying ground.


Until at last a patch of cerulean blue, a gentle breeze, a momentary lull, while bird and beast forage and graze. People take stock of washed out roads, overflowing ditches, blocked culverts. The road is silent, no cars pass, closed to traffic because of a landslip further along the road. And while the road is closed, finally much-needed repairs take place; new tarmac outside the house, stripping away the ruts and potholes…


Evening brings brief respite, watery sunset and quiet breeze. Blackbirds gather in the bushes, feasting on the bright berries and rosehips. The sun may come out tomorrow…