Last Sunday of August
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.
“Daddy, may I come with you?” – “Only if you let us listen to the sounds of nature”. My free hand receives and holds the trusting, warm, comradely hand of the angel of my days. Behind us, there may be a pair of eyes sending us off with approval.
Off we go, to meet the day. Everything else can wait.
August 26, 2019 @ 8:45 am
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.