The killing ground ... It's better to have loved and lost....

I go in search of Edward Scissor Beak in the garden thinking I may find him under a hedge...but I come across a different killing ground - an explosion - a burst pillow of small feathers in the wet grass by the summer house and 

another carpet scattered over the dead leaves on the driveway by my car.  But the feathers are charcoal grey - must be a blackbird -  and too many to be those of a tiny blue tit. 

I still look out for him, hoping to be surprised

but in my heart I know he's gone....and keep reminding myself not to get attached to our wild creatures. I'm just grateful  that the robins still visit....

and the thrushes who are coming more

frequently to the ground feeder. 

On Saturday afternoon in the half light of pulled curtains in the  community hall of a small Somerset village, I spend more time stealing glances at the faces of my sweet great nephew and niece than what is happening on the stage.

 They are a treat....sometimes transfixed, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes delighted, sometimes puzzled, sometimes enthralled and always ready to hiss and boo the 'badies' and cheer on the 'goodies'. But always engaged and willing to be enraptured...safe on a parent's lap.

And for them all the wonders...and pitfalls .... of the world still to discover.

I feel  the contrast keenly when I get home -  their precious lives all ahead of them...the two fingers of my right hand aching when I chop up green things for my supper - cabbage and leeks and broccoli - and I can't remember when they didn't hurt, but I don't think it was that long ago.

 It's just crept up on me, slow as a halting chameleon march....living with a body that is changing all the time.....living with an ache inside that never fades away.

On Sunday I walk the landscape  in the late afternoon...

sit briefly on my bench by the stream...

and watch the nearly full moon rising above the branches of the  ash tree

from my vantage point at the kitchen sink when I'm washing up my supper dishes. I love it that the moon waxes and wanes every month...and it always will... with or without me and my sore bent fingers. 

Today I sit, breathing through my nose, in the dentist's chair while he repairs my broken back tooth. For some people their teeth become more brittle as they age....more likely for shards to sheer off...especially if they have been heavily filled, as mine have.

But as my friend reminds me later, as we sit at her dining room table drinking hot tea, I do still have my teeth ....and all the rest of me...whatever age my cells are...I'm still here ....still breathing...still blessed with love and kindness all around me.

And I  don't have to face the risk of a killing ground outside my back door like the wild creatures who share my land.... and who have captured my heart even at the risk of their death and disappearance at any time.

As Alfred Lord Tennyson said ...

It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.