Gorgeous, bright, sunny morning. Tomorrow’s bank
holiday adds an extra luxuriance to the sense of here and now. The future can
wait; the present is here.
A tone-poem of colour is playing outside, with
clear pre-echoes of autumn. The birds sing their part in this anthem of
celebration with only a hint of elegy for the departing summer. The morning air,
still crisp, heralds the warmth of the day with the safe certainty that noon
will follow morn. The river, not at its quietest but well down from its recent disquiet,
plays its gentler counterpoint of stony, light-reflecting, life-giving melody. Even the old dog, resigned to his duty to
walk, looks, smells and listens with curiosity at this miraculous symphony of
the season.
Off we go, to meet the day. Everything else can
wait.
1 comment:
A kind friend just wrote to ask if the above was reality or fantasy. Was I that convincing? In fact, that is one of my problems: dreams are convincing.
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