The universe in a raindrop

After the rain, the raindrops. In spiderwebs, hanging from petals, lined up on stalks of grass. Catching the sun in a perfect tiny universe. 

Walking at Silvermine after the rain, beauty arrives without warning, unhidden, but secretly. Here are some secrets, shared with you.

A breath of golden light

Oxalis Purpurea

I collided with a grasshopper while a starling with whirring dark-red wingtips raced ahead of me on the mountain path. From their yellow throats, tiny purple flowers joined the hallelujah chorus of a sunny weekday afternoon on the mountain. Purpurea, purple, periwinkle, pink. Purpurea oxalis, the flowers that tell you winter is here.

From the foot of Devil's Peak I breathed in the last golden light, sweet as nectar.

The tri-tri-tri whistle of a sunbird sliced the air in a beat of three and then night fell just as Venus and a ship in the bay lit up.

And in that very last light, a white rock breathed the last sigh of a sunny day, sharing its heat with dusty-pink ericas.

P.s. This blog is for Heidi, who inspired this one.

Sunday in black and white, and silver

Dear Blog, it's been a long time, I know. I'm sorry, and I've missed you too. And now I only have black and white photographs for you, because winter started at precisely 5.15 pm today. But I braved the rain to bring you these.

It was really quite beautiful. From the pipetrack above Camps Bay the ocean was charcoal and the clouds sagged with unrained rain above the dark sea. Then the rain came down like a silver curtain drawn quickly from the sea to the mountain.

Pincushions and pieces of white bark suddenly glowed with a new winter white and the bright yellow dot on the wet Cape sugarbird's long tail was the only colour to be seen for miles around.

Winter is here. Isn't that wonderful?