A typical November day, misty, damp, a chill that seeps up from the ground - the tops of the trees lost in mist - a cold day in the garage with occasional views across to Shobdon Woods Hill, the mist draping across it; a soft day, a day for a long walk, the sort of day that has sudden patches of quiet, a pond of silence unruffled by anything; then a small piping of a bird, unseen, which only deepens the silence. I love days like this, cold and damp and gloomy; they make me think of the autumnal pleasures of firelight and woodsmoke and tea. It is a day for a bonfire of leaves, a day for fathers to burn leaves and wear gumboots. And at 3.30pm it is starting to get dark.
Fifteen years ago this week and next I was in Vancouver and I have been reading my journal; I recorded the same sort of light, a never-quite-bright light, as if the sun is permanently below the horizon.
No comments:
Post a Comment