halftwo
Wird Batcher
The bright ripe juice of plucked blue billberries like blood from a pricked finger; a Reed bunting calls from the wall. Meadow pipits chase it to further stones. And there a pair of Stonechats bob as the sun comes back out over the reservoir, black legs holding them to the breezy tops. One dives and catches a bee and, back on the wall, rusty breast bright, holds its prize.
A Red Admiral skips along the track in the sunshine and in the distance Rooks dance around a sparring Sparrowhawk and Kestrel. The hawk plummets towards cover and the falcon follows in a stoop.
Two Swallows slip by - slippery as fish - heading towards the sun. The last blackberries show on brambles, leaves turning scarlet and the land itself rusts on the season's change.
Below in the beech wood - a mat of nutty masts beneath - all the birds are gathered: scores of tits, Goldcrests and finches flit and squabble in and out of dappled light as Nuthatches call.
Somewhere the whisper of a Treecreeper seeps from the crowd and the kick of a Woodpecker trips. The staccato rattle of Mistle thrushes defending holly berries echoes through the autumn trees.
Now a fish-fuelled Cormorant flaps and flies high into the wind, turning towards another hunting ground. The summer Oystercatchers have gone from the empty shores of these highland waters and now only gulls come to wash and drink.
For now the sun warms the day, but already the clouds gather above the sheltering hills.
A Red Admiral skips along the track in the sunshine and in the distance Rooks dance around a sparring Sparrowhawk and Kestrel. The hawk plummets towards cover and the falcon follows in a stoop.
Two Swallows slip by - slippery as fish - heading towards the sun. The last blackberries show on brambles, leaves turning scarlet and the land itself rusts on the season's change.
Below in the beech wood - a mat of nutty masts beneath - all the birds are gathered: scores of tits, Goldcrests and finches flit and squabble in and out of dappled light as Nuthatches call.
Somewhere the whisper of a Treecreeper seeps from the crowd and the kick of a Woodpecker trips. The staccato rattle of Mistle thrushes defending holly berries echoes through the autumn trees.
Now a fish-fuelled Cormorant flaps and flies high into the wind, turning towards another hunting ground. The summer Oystercatchers have gone from the empty shores of these highland waters and now only gulls come to wash and drink.
For now the sun warms the day, but already the clouds gather above the sheltering hills.
