Beltane is a pagan festival. Its name is a Celtic word which means ‘fires of Bel’ (Bel was a Celtic deity). It is a fire festival that celebrates the coming of summer and the heat of fertility. It is usually celebrated on or about 1st May.

Unspoken Log #5

The horticultural conflagration has been re-ignited. 
Soft flames everywhere. 
The unspoken grows, 
and the garden is warm again.
It took a while.
The frogs were late.
They churned the pond into a hot tub,
did their frogging,
and filled the lower loop with their spawn porridge.
Not as many millions as in prior years.
All hatched now,
but not all gone,
though some have fallen prey to bigger gapes.
One of last year’s brood found her way into Giltrap’s gullet.
Clever; as Giltrap’s gob does not open.
But he’s hollow under the surface.
The secret gardener saw her when we accidentally toppled the goblin
whilst repositioning the hog hutch.

How did the untravelled juvenile amphibian know that there was water in the birdbath suspended six times higher than she can leap?
Somehow she did.
Henry the hog went back to be released and was replaced by Beryl the spiky sow, who was altogether more social media savvy.
She’s gone to be rewilded too.
Our brace of fostered hedgepigs are our there somewhere.
Spare them your tyres.
Meanwhile, the other Henry
He of Mabel and Henry,
is in good voice again.
“I love you, Mabel”  he coos.
“I love you, Henry” she calls back.
So they go on,
when they’re not making over-cautious
and blatantly foolish
forays onto the feeding tray that’s too small for one
Let alone for a twosome.
Mabel, or Henry
The hoverflies are back on biplane patrol
quartering the badminton quad.
Brown and yellow barons
darting like Hawkers and
too deftly for dogfights.
Whilst down on the drive
the mining bees
dig two foot trenches
in which to bury their babies alive.
Oh dear . . . 
Bombilyous Major
A bee-fly stayed overnight
in our conservatory.
Major Bombilyous
sucked breakfast through a bazooka straw
then blasted off to bonk 
and breed a brood of toddler parasitoids.
The pregnant pilot women carpet-bomb their eggs
which then jettison larvae
that eat the rations left for baby bees
before gobbling up the babes too.
Gruesome, but true.
The starling squadron
dive-bombed our lakeside sky base,
making a meal 
of a hit and run raid on the mealworms,
much to the delight of the secret gardener.
They are one of her favoured species,
while I always feel there's something of the jackboot about them.
Things are really hotting-up.

Fire, fire everywhere;
it’s a morezone.
Life forces outmanoeuvre
fellow survivors
all fighting
to live long enough
to reincarnate.

Blossom burns
White on the apples and pears
Pink on the cherries
Something hotter on the tulips
Pouting in the sunlight.
If I swing on the hammock, the apple trunk does not move, but the blossom on the far side waves back. Inactivity in action.
The dandelions are disgustingly showy
But they’re all mane,
just brandishing their allure.

The tulips appear aloof,
but who knows what those lips get up to
after dark?

More from the unspoken garden:

More nature inspired missives:

Click on the pics for a closer peep.

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