Devon Life

Today has special meaning for me as for many people - I always prefer to remember on the real Armistice Day rather than Remembrance Sunday. In the past, my thoughts have mostly turned to my maternal grandfather who was an ambulance driver and stretcher bearer in WWI in Flanders, but this year, the present is very much in my mind, as war takes its toll on today's generation rather than past generations. How sad that, so many years later, we are still mourning the loss of British life in foreign lands.

In Flanders Fields

written by John McCrae in May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

A poem I wrote this time last year and never got round to posting...

Last night, I burnt a thousand peacock feathers,
cast-offs from the feather factory,
ten tidy bundles of a hundred each.
Brown string noosed them in a sheaf
of glorious indigo, green and gold
tapering into pearly quills.

What bounty for a budding writer -
material for a thousand pens.
But oh! what disappointment to discover
the moth within, shredding all
to scattered coloured slivers.

Bonfire Night the perfect time
to consign them to the flames.
See how the vanes just crisp and curl,
the iridescence fades to black,
all beauty lost in smoke.

It is easy to worry about climate change desertifying Africa, flooding Bangladesh and melting the polar ice ? but very hard for us ordinary mortals to actually do anything other than be as careful as we can with our energy use. And when I go into the supermarket and almost freeze by the chiller cabinets, then overcook near the bakery, I feel that my little efforts are rather negated by this profligate squandering of energy over which I have no control.

So, for this blog post, I want to concentrate on something a bit more homely. Last Sunday, I walked down the lane and picked what will probably be my last bowl of blackberries for this year. Traditionally, we aren't supposed to pick them after Michaelmas (29th September), as the Devil spits on them - a busy man, obviously. I suspect the belief dates from colder times when blackberries would have been very pippy and bitter at the end of the season - but here we are well into October and they are still sweet and juicy, if a bit fly-blown in places.

And what about swallows? Until recently, I used to time the swallows by family dates: they always left for Africa around the time of my Dad's birthday (early September), and arrived again on the anniversary of his death (early April). Although I don't think they were early arriving, they were certainly late leaving this year. Mr W even saw a family of swallows (with young in the nest) at the Axminster farmers' store only three weeks ago. I do hope they were strong enough to fly south for the winter, though I fear not.

So, there is a snapshot of how climate change is affecting me. I am so lucky it isn't going to starve, bake or drown my native land.