It's poetry. So rich in metaphor that I have to stop after each paragraph to reflect.
A single nightjar wing, and the imprint it left upon a muddy track in Ethiopia.
At Babylonstoren, in one of the walled gardens, there is a weeping mulberry and thickets of Leonotus Leonurus. Lion's Tails - minty and furry. Wilde Dagga.
Amongst the hanging trails of mulberry leaves are two man-made weaver's nests. To get inside, you climb a little iron ladder. I could stay there for hours, with a blanket and a book. The weavers are in the tree around you, busy with their particular hullabaloo.
Tiny red leaves fiddled their way to the floor, floating slowly, pellucid and pretty, while gravity seemed to push them back up to the sky.
Afterwards, the consolation of fresh pressed juice without having to wash the many parts of the juicer.
And a beetroot cupcake, made with the pulp.
The fowl are shiny and fat and the donkeys are fed sweet chopped herbs.
Back at home, a robin hovers over the mirror of the old Land Rover on the grass. He pecks and flutters, scaring intruders away day after day. For this garden belongs to him and his mate
and that is good to know.
Tomorrow there will be fresh bread,
with the promise of a crumb or two.
