The wild winds weep
And the night is a-cold
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs unfold.
I wish I could claim this poem as my own creation, but I can’t. It is from a poem called “Mad Song,” by William Blake.
I was quite taken by this poem when I wrote my first novel of a coastal drama in which the wild weather played a significant role. That is why I used “The Wind Weeps” as my title.
I’m not trying to persuade you to click on the book cover image at the side for the free download of that book, but if you do, remember book two, “Reckoning Tide.”
Driving past Point Holmes on my way home from shopping, I stopped to take a few pictures. I had to hang onto the car door tightly so it wouldn’t rip off. A torn rotator cuff on a person is painful, but on a car door it would be expensive – so, also painful in a way.
It takes a good stiff wind to give these waves foaming, frothy tops. In the photo below you can see a smooth line near the bottom of the picture. That is the paved boat launch ramp. No one is using it today for obvious reasons. No way I’d want to be tossing around in a small boat out there.
Even the little songbirds were looking for shelter. They swarmed in small clouds to and from the beach. Some flew in to land on the rocks and logs, but my photo doesn’t show the tiny birds well. I enlarged the photo to have a look (as you may be able to do by clicking on it), and I counted at least twelve small birds. It’s a tough time for them.
Those mountains in the distance should be clear and sharp. It is only around noon, but the sky is dark and full of raindrops flying sideways so the far shore is fuzzy and the mountains just a haze.
It’s too stormy out there for me. I think Emma has the right idea.
At the end of the fishing season this past summer, the Captain was ready to head home. A new phase of the adventure begins with the rising sun.
Along the way home, he stops to check out this little building. You would never guess that inside this shack is a pleasant surprise. A cemented enclosure fills with warm water through a pipe from hotsprings behind the cabin. Step inside and have a soak to take the ache out of your bones.
The falls at the head of Lowe Inlet splash relentlessly. Except for the odd raven chuckling in the treetops, the rush and gurgle of the water are the only sounds. If you think you might want to try casting a dry fly towards a coho, be sure to take your bear spray with you – just in case.
Need a warm cabin for drying out those wet clothes? This Fisheries cabin at Lowe Inlet, aptly named the Lowe Budget Hotel, is very cozy after the Captain has spent some time trying his luck fishing in the cold mist of the falls.
He remembers to follow the rules about the woodstove, posted on the wall. Don’t want to risk burning the cabin down.
Almost there. Running the boat down Grenville Channel. Beautiful trip but there’s no place like home.
Meanwhile at home, I’ve been writing, and thinking about my fictitious character, Andrea, who has had an experience that seems bizarre at first. But in truth, this has happened to other women who have ventured out to the coast.
How did a city girl like her became trapped in an isolated cabin on this remote coast? Will she ever escape this lonely place where she must live with a man who is mentally deranged?
You can download The Wind Weeps (FREE), and then you can find out the conclusion in a sequel, Reckoning Tide, that is only $2.99. When did you last get so much enjoyment and entertainment for such a small price?
Why not get them both today at amazon.com or amazon.ca and smashwords.com?
You can find them all with supporting reviews at my website www.anneli-purchase.com
No, it’s not “The Holly and the Ivy,” but close enough. I noticed that the maple’s leaves got hung up on the holly tree below it, and the muse tickled the keyboard once again.
The maple sheds a coat that weaves
And floats towards the ground,
Hanging up on prickly leaves
Of holly all around.
The holly says, “I thank you, dear,
I’m shivering with cold.
When winter nights are chill and clear
Your leaves my warmth will hold.
And decorated, too, am I
Just like a Christmas tree.
My berries red will catch the eye
And all will look at me.
But you, dear maple, what of you?
Your scrawny arms are chill.
There’s nothing more that you can do.
So pray for you, I will.
Be steadfast through the winter gale,
Be tough as you can be,
Till new green leaves your arms regale
With pride and majesty.”
“Yikes!” This guy was caught red-handed – well, maybe more like red-headed – vandalizing the maple tree. Just look at the holes he’s put into the bark! I guess they make great toeholds for him.
Who would think there is something inside that bark that makes it so enticing for him?
“Hold on,” he says. “I think I can hear something wiggling around in there.”
“Mmyeahhhh … worth having a poke around.”
“There he is! I can feel him in there. Tasty little morsel … if I can only get him out of there. I’ll follow it up with a slurp of syrup from the sap.”
“Yum! That was good, but what a lot of work for a snack. Gotta take a breather for a sec.”
“What’s that you say?” He’s shocked that I’ve questioned him. “Holes in the bark? So what? There’s tons of them. What’s one more?”
“But don’t you see that if you keep going around in a circle you’ll soon ring the tree?”
“Well, the sap has to go up and down the tree to keep it alive.”
“But I’m a sapsucker. Duh! It’s what I do!”
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I held so still for her when I saw she had her camera. But enough is enough.”
“I’ll pose for this one last picture and then I’m off. I can always come back later, when her arm gets tired, or her eyes hurt from squinting against the sun, or – hee hee – when her battery dies. All that zooming really eats batteries.
Now. Where was I? Oh yes, continuing on this line of holes my buddies and I were working on last week.”
These chrysanthemums haven’t had the benefit of any fertilizers for all of their life. I guess I should have paid more attention. But every time I looked at them, I felt a bit sad and walked away. Why?
Over 36 years ago, these mums were in a hanging basket in my mother’s back porch. In 1982, when she died, I brought the hanging basket home to my house. I didn’t expect them to come back the next year and bloom, and when they did, the feeling was always bittersweet.
I took more care the next winter to cover them with a patio chair or some kind of loose plastic to keep the worst of the cold off them. It didn’t occur to me to add fertilizer even after I repotted them when they got too big for the hanging basket.
Now, after blooming for the 36th time since they came to live with me, I have finally come to my senses and have decided to give them some fertilizer next spring.
I am grateful for this plant’s tribute to my mother each year, and have been shamed into taking better care of it. Do you think it’s too late for me to get it together?
Dunkirk, Zurich, Malta, Glasgow, Cleveland, Devon, Rudyard, Harlem, Jordan, Belgrade, Amsterdam-Churchill, Havre, and Manhattan. These are names of places all over the world, but they are also names of places in Montana.
On our way home we stopped for the night in Zurich. Not Zurich, Switzerland, but Zurich, Montana. It’s a tiny farming community where the people drive their ATVs down the middle of the road if they’re taking their trash to the local garbage dump. You just have to slow down and wait until they make their turn into the dumping station up ahead on the left.
Then you can continue on to the little gem of a community park where they kindly allow campers to stay the night for a mere ten-dollar fee for electricity. Such a peaceful location.
The community hall was not in use the day we were there, camped in the corner.
The view from my trailer window is of black cottonwoods that whisper as they drop their last golden leaves. The only notably loud sound was made by the pheasant who cackled enthusiastically before taking wing out of the creek bed beside our trailer.
I thought it odd that Montana has so many names that duplicate other places in the world, but on looking more closely at the map, I saw names of a completely different sort: Poplar, Wolf Point, Plentywood, Buffalo, Cat Creek, Musselshell, Rattlesnake, Lodgepole, Sleeping Buffalo, Whitewater, Crow Rock, Grass Range, Forest Grove, Roundup, Deer Lodge, Cut Bank, Sunburst, Sweetgrass, Fox Crossing, Chinook, Gold Butte.
Montana names are such fun!