I don't belief in an almighty figure dictating what happens to us but is fate the same thing? The number of potentially awful things that don't happen because of fortuitous timing or other things happening to stop you being somewhere which could have been disastrous.
This happened the other day with the lovely jackdaw. By chance I decided to go round to the poly tunnel at an unusual time for going there when I heard a dreadful screaming by the gate. There on the ground was an enormous buzzard on top of jackdaw in the throes of killing him. A second or two later it would have succeeded. They both flew away when I shouted, jackdaw to return to my shoulder moments later all puffed up and shaking but with no visible injuries. I took him into the safety of the shade tunnel where he had grown up and whose door I have to keep shut as there is a crow in there with some white feathers who as yet is unable to fly.
I thought he might die of shock, he was very subdued and hunched up and I was over the moon to find him chirpy in the morning still alive. He likes going for a walk with me, sitting on my shoulder and for the first time he stood staring up at the sky. He had learnt that death can come through the clouds. He must like me even more now I saved his life and immediately comes if he sees me. He's found a way to get back into the shade tunnel too, I've no idea how but that is where he feels safe so I'm glad. There must be a kind of smeuse somewhere - a gap made by the regular passage of a small animal. The rest of the time I guess he's flying around the trees and keeping a low profile. The sad thing is that gangs of jackdaws tend to mob raptors but he is not part of a gang and so singled out for behaving in a friendly manner.
Here he is trying to be part of the duck gang and paling up with Geoffrey the hen.
I found a photo of Rocket as a puppy before he became a neurotic dog that barks at every other dog and human walking out on the track.
And Pocket as a kitten ....
and the ducks just after they'd hatched.....
Rocket is here out in the field where he tells me that Pocket has never been and is therefore unlikely to surprise him in his new
Ghost Form. (Though he is wondering what will happen at Halloween?)
Below to continue the young animal pictures is a mother hedgehog and her five hoglets. I've watched them over the months grow from teeny weeny munchkins into credible hedgepigs.
There are no pictures of Nancy as a kitten as we rescued her when she was about two years old. We aren't sure how old she is - older than Pocket and perhaps because Nancy is so old now she is often completely unaware that
Ghost Pocket sometimes stands close by.
Do less but better I hear him murmur.
Marcus Aurelius said that I confer.
Yes Marcus and I often share similar thoughts. He became famous for his collection of thoughts, Stoic beliefs and notes on his life. Pocket smirks and looks over his shoulder as he saunters off.
Some cause happiness wherever they go. Others whenever they go. Oh you've palled up with Oscar Wilde too have you? I want to know. Pocket clearly cannot be bothered to share his friendship with Oscar and instead looks sternly at me.
I'll give you a gardyloo he says
we have to understand that nobody's going to save us from ourselves. Yes I reply -Carl Sagan's words.
He grew up in poverty in South Korea - back when tiger's smoked. Pocket tells me. What? I query.
Yes we don't say once upon a time any more if you look at Korean tales. Perhaps you should start your stories off like
that. I wanted to thank him for his good advice but then wondered if instead it was a
gardyloo ........
So back when tiger's smoked a little black kitten was born ........
RIP the wonderful poet Brian Patten who I met in the Assembly room bar during the Edinburgh fringe festival many many moons ago - infact probably when Tigers smoked. He stood alone and said to me that the trouble with being famous is that people daren't come and talk to you. I thought it a poignant but true by- product of the culture of fame.
Garden Lore
by Brian Patten.
Who will look after the garden while I’m gone?
‘I will,’ said January.
‘I will anchor it to the earth with snowdrops.
I will give it my stone, the garnet.’
‘It is mine,’ said February.
‘I will feed it the memory of all that grows.
I will welcome it with my stone the amethyst and with primrose.’
‘I will coax it with bloodstone and daffodil,’ said March,
Like a boxer battered by winter
I will lift myself from the frosty canvas of the earth to welcome it.’
‘With diamond and daisy I will seduce it.
“I will soak it in shower after shower,’ said April.
‘In the yawny earth its seeds will riot.’
‘I will make it dizzy with emeralds
And the fumes of the hawthorn,’ said May.
‘It will know of nothing but play.’
‘And I will adorn it with necklaces of honeysuckle and ruby,’ said June.
‘Their clasps will be made out of the honeybees wings.’
It will dance to my languid tune.’
‘I will contain it,’ said July.
‘I will handcuff it with briar and chrysolite,
Drug it with the scent of roses.’
August spoke from the garden’s still centre.
‘I will weep layer upon layer of sardonyx.
I will teach it the brevity of poppies.’
‘When its bones begin to creak
I will cure it with aster and opal,’
Promised September
I will guide it towards sleep with the cold light of sapphires.
For its lullaby I will provide the swan-song of dahilias,’
Said October.
‘Under the dead weight of chrysanthemums I will bury it,’
Said November.
‘I will give it a headstone of topaz, a rosary of berries.’
‘And I will guard its sleep,’ said December.
‘On a pillow of moonstone
It will dream of holly and the coming snowdrop.’
