The world from my window

It's a bit blowy here in Dorset. Hop on over to A Dorset Year for more. That's about it. Love Maddie x

I am sitting in my room looking out of the window. As usual, for now at least, The Enchanted Village Square is quiet. It could be at least a year or more before we have the shop back up and running. The cattle have been moved nearer their winter quarters, leaving a trail of empty fields in their wake. There are magic mushrooms growing up on the ridge and, as the October wind whistles through the village, the red and green and brown, crunchy leaves are whirling up and down the road like dervishes. I love the wind, it makes me feel powerful and insignificant all at the same time. It sends children in the playground running wild and it brings a certain frisson to the air. A police car goes by, slowing down to go round the one-way system, its lights flashing and siren blaring, New York-style. The sound is out of place in this quiet place, and is followed by a chugging tractor and the automatic revs of a long, lean sports car. I should look out of my window more often. That's ...

The sky is a bright blue and then grey and then black and then white as clouds scuttle across overhead so very quickly. The cockerel and hen on the weather vane swing back and forth from south to west. The cord on the church tower's flagpole flips and flaps to a regular beat, like the mast of a yacht trapped in a blustery harbour or the sound of eggs being whisked professionally in a metal bowl. There are high winds today in The Enchanted Village. There is an edge to the air. You are a witness to the wind's power, the roar, the rush. You can hear it, you can feel it. You can even smell it. But you cannot see it. The beech trees break out into rapturous applause. A laurel bush waves frantically, the ash tree whooshes and rushes, its branches dancing, the yew moans as if to tell the world this breeze is far too strong for its ancient bones. The oak tree - solid, dependable - takes it all in its stride. In my head I am a child, my mother reading me this poem by Christina Rosetti:...