Rain has been falling most of the day. It sounds like the secrets of old, dark mountains that have shivered slow on down to the ocean and dissolved - only to be drawn up again centuries later to become rain that breaks against my windows and into my garden. People say we are made of stars, but days like this I think they're wrong, I think we're made of hill-water and other people's secrets.
I have whiled the afternoon away, looking at pictures and listening to music. Later, I will be doing some autumn cleaning. It's the season for putting away lace and floral china, bringing out boots, long woolen coats, incence. For a woman can be both Brigid, weaving flowers in her hair, and the Cailleach.
Can you see her in the summer, wrapping green grasses around her heart, smiling like she is honey and new gentle promises? And can you see her as the year goes dark, not talking, tying her heart like a scarf to some tangly branch that protudes into the cold and feral wind?
The truth is, sometimes I feel like I've spent summer lounging around in a quiet dream, and then the rain comes and I wake up, and hear the raw wild silence, and am in a sudden rush to get home again.