Seventh August Blog

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Seventh August Blog.

i may not get another blog out for August, after this one. But I think for a greater part of the UK ths week, it is mostly rain.

This means, going out, even to post letters by car, will not be feasible, unless we want to get soaked. Oh, the sun did shine for a while this morning, but dark clouds were already building up by 11.30 a.m. By midday, down came the rain! It is still raining. Dank, dark, gloomy and autumnal looking.

So my suggestion now is to start hunkering down. Winter is approaching. Start planning for hearty warming meals. Shake out the warm coats, scarves, hats and gloves. Don’t forget to check for moth holes. They are sneaky little blighters.

Before I end this short post. As some might have heard from me, today, and I firmly reiterate, we had rain of Biblical proportions, plus thunder and lightning. Have not seen rain come down that hard for many a moon. Late aftenoon, the sun came out very bright and the wind blew stronger than you would expext in iate summer. If I bothered to check the newspapers, they might have an answer for this atypical weather pattern, nay also predict thus to be the end of warm weather and quite autumnal temperatures. I hope not but…..without being a Job’s comforter, as my daughter said, it is only four months to Christmas. Yuk! Too bloomin’ soon.

Pocket Dreams.
Where is hope, that forgotten dream,
The Love that sought my heart?
She of the wildwood, quiet, serene,
Who tore my life apart.

Tossed aside, like a holey shoe
That has trod the barren earth.
Left to meander in wilderness, blue,
To dwell in miasma’s dearth.

My heart’s beating slows with time,
Draining the life I once led.
Yet you cared not in your sublime
Way, e’en though you cut, and I bled.

On whispering wind Inhear your voice still,
It calls like a trilling skylark.
Is it just in my dreamlike thrill,
Or the hit as the storm sky grows da

Are you laughing at this poor soul of mine?
Has the love you once gave, been forgot?
Bitter tears I weep, in decline
As you dismiss my sorry lot.

But yours is the sorrow of life in the end
When old, you remember, and sigh,
Then my revenge, on which I depend,
Is sated, though for you I still cry.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. August, 2015.

Hope late holidaymakers enjoy the last moments, and, as always, be careful out that everyone.

Evelyn

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