soft tears again
for this unknown grief –
the silhouttes of crows
The early autumn here has been beautiful, weeks and weeks it feels like of dry sunny weather, and all the light we didn’t get in the summer. Warm too – last Sunday, the first of November, I was picnicking on the side of a hill in jeans and t-shirt!
I confess though, there’s something about the damp and misty days that draws me in, that lets you be in a different kind of way. Back down at the shore again in the middle of this week the other side had disappeared once more, and everything was drippy, damp.
There were only a couple of lone figures out, walking dogs or like me catching the sounds and patterns of the wading birds out on the mud flats, half there and half not as they drifted in and out of the mist.
There’s no pressure to do anything on a day like this at a place like this, not to enjoy, not to take photographs, not to be impressed or to impress, just be, half there and half not, like the birds.
Even with the dull light and the dampness there were still a few flowers dancing at the edge, and I couldn’t help but admire their torn and tearing softness, muted, like the tones of the day.
It was a beautiful autumn-gold day when I left the house this morning. By the time I got down to the river, the world was cloaked in fog.
It wasn’t the walk that I’d planned and so much more lovely than that.
With no-one else about, all sounds muffled, the other side of the water swallowed up by the mist, only the cry of the birds for company –
Everything was still, everything was muted, everything was dreamy.
It was like walking for an hour in another world, as far from the busyness of ‘reality’ as you could be.
And for the umpteen hundredth time I found myself thinking: I will never find the words for this, the gorgeousness of the world; no photographs can ever do more than hint at its loveliness, and my thankfulness.
A path, through sunlight, through trees. Each and every time I stop and take a picture: it pulls me in, again and again, this quiet, irresistible invitation.
Only a few blue flowers remain, crinkling at the edges. In their place, an abundance of down, soft to the touch, ready to fly, to flee, to fall.
I wonder if there is a word for the gold light of a sunny September morning? Its softness, its thickness, the way it falls and touches, like a parent’s hand, like a kiss.