time and weather, forecast, flight

What can't be said is written here
In damp and lichen spread on walls,
(With time its slow interpreter),
And mimics flowers and animals,

And catches soldiers trundling by,
Lovers running through the grass,
And makes them dance or fall or fly
Or fade away like clouds that pass,

While in the grit and living leaf,
In crevice, fold and shadow,
How strange and past belief,
It fails and starts again to grow.

For sure, you'll see yourself
And watch your story told
All at once or half by half,
As frame and film unfold.

Look closely then and tread with care,
And learn how to forget,
Before you find out who you are

Or were or will be yet.

On the screen, this morning, the BBC weather forecast for today says Heavy Rain. I look out of the window. The sun is shining.

Black birds are nesting in the bay tree in the front garden. When we stand outside the front door, they swoop past us at knee level on their way to and from the nest.