Hair on end

The fizzing yellow of the oil seed rape has gone, all the flowers were knocked about by the heavy rain we had a few days ago.  A glorious storm at night thudding and flashing - no blinds closed.  It was like trying to sleep in a night club.  Little One in with us, as usual.  Hard to sleep anyway with so much electricity in the air - I was expecting to wake up with hair like Ken Dodd.  Not much different to my usual morning hair.

Then a day of thick fog.  Not sure if it was a haar, the sea mist we had at university.  Wonder if a haar is particular to the east coast of Scotland.  Is it the same as a fret?  Are these mists different in essence or just in name?  Anyway, it was a real pea souper and stayed all day and night into the next morning.  I was convinced the house was no longer attached to the world and we were adrift in time.  Then I watched a programme about the queens of country music and the life of Loretta Lynn brought me back.  My son came downstairs, scrubbing his eyes, hair tufty.  He'd had a bad dream and heard scary banging.  He sat with me and looked at Dolly Parton.  We went to bed and he lay in his soft blue gingham pyjamas, eyes wide until I got in next to him.  I watched his long lashes settle on soft flushed cheeks.  Very grubby nails, hands neatly folded and then one reached to hold mine.  How do mothers bear it when their sons leave to sleep beside other women?

The light of the sun setting behind the rape caught in the hairs of the stems and the field glittered like a frosty morning.  There are bright poppies in the field and all along the roadside.  They last for less than a day in a vase.  So don't pick them.