My first holly is threaded through with hawthorn, intertwined, the hawthorn branches more flexuous.
A faint piping of birds almost lost to the wind in the trees. Fair-weather cumulus clouds against a back-drop of blue. Juniper and gorse hug close to the earth and only small birds sheltering within would to hear what their throngs of needles say in the wind.
As I listen to the wind in the holly, in ash, oak and whitebeam I hear an ambulance siren and the sounds of Kendal Quarry. A 21st century soundscape in the distance, but close about me something more ancient.
Turning homeward, through an iron kissing -gate in the wall, there are bass notes that come out of nowhere. And are gone. Unfathomable. An elemental mystery. Who can catch the wind? Words cannot encompass it. Experience is all and it is sensational. A cold and blustery wind from the North East, with sudden gusts and pulses. The wind made visible as it thrills through the whitebeam, setting it dancing, shaking and shivering the holly, setting timbers creaking like galleons at sea. ' Shiver my timbers,' says the pirate Long John SIlver as storm-waves lift the ship high and drop it shuddering and creaking down.
I try to attribute a section of the orchestra to the wind in the trees. There are wind instruments, and percussion. And there would be strings and an Aeolian harp, if a wire fence were up here on Scout Scart. I know where to go to listen to the Aeolian harp and it's magic.