The scribbling started before the metronomic patter of summer rain. Outside, on my canopied garden deck, the tip-tap of precipitation on the glass roof lent punctutation to the creativity and the flow of ink on paper. All around me birds sang a tribute to the blessing of much needed drizzle. A warm, gentle downpour dispensed by low misty cloud. The sundown hidden behind the smirr loosed a few Daubenton and Pipstrelle bats from their hidden roosts; their immediate prey, the whirling cockchafers bouncing off the canopy roof. With darkness descending the blackbird cocks competed for ‘Last Post’ and I lit some citronella candles to deter the gathering cloud of biting bugs attracted to my reading light. The dancing yellow flames flickering through the ruby contents of my wine glass. The words flowed from pen to paper as the darkness drew down. One by one the blackbirds ceased their evensong until just one remained; reluctant, like the writer, to call the end of day. When he, too, disappeared from the soundscape I was left with just the soporific patter of the rain. I took a last sip of the Cabernet and laid down my pen. The thickening cloud whispered the threat of storm and I left my al-fresco desk reluctantly. Sleep beckoned … and the promise of a fine morn to follow. The writing? Just the scoping of another book. there is always ‘another book’. Just as there is always another day, another dusk, another glass of wine and another evensong. And long may it continue.
Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, June 2019