Wind-blown mizzle. Clank and rattle at the end of the block as workers disassemble scaffolding, safety-green coats against the gray clouds.
Two wood pigeons sitting on a chimney pot take flight, circle the gardens, and return to their perch, sheltering under a TV aerial from the fast-flying clouds.
A spliff-shaped cloud drifts past. The rose bush reminds me of the old blues lyric: The way you wear them dresses, the sun keeps shining through…
Overhead, wispy mare’s tails, and on the patio, drifts of feathers where a wood pigeon met its end—undoubtedly the work of a cat.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.
Blue seams open and close in the clouds. I remember the view from the plane, that shining white carpet into which we sank.
A blue eye opens and closes in the middle of a cumulus cloud. A cabbage white butterfly lands on the unkillable buddleia on the shed roof.
Waiting for the forecast rain, we watch the sky: dark clouds, the arabesques of swifts, a grey feather floating down like a petal of ash.
Cloudy but with a patch too bright to look at. A carrion crow calling at the top of the ash tree suddenly adds vocal fry, like a local teen.
Chased in by the rain again, I watch from the kitchen as sudden sunlight blazes on wet slate roofs, black clouds behind.