On winter
|
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.” Mending wall, Robert Frost We have enjoyed a marvellous summer, and, as I write, the approaching forlorn remains of Hurricane Gonzalo promise a day of wind, rain and disruption. Airlines have cancelled services; drivers are advised to postpone journeys; the cat, sensing trouble as cats do, has taken cover under the duvet and will not be budged. A bulge in the bedding moves gently in time with his breathing. It is as if summer has given way to winter, foregoing the formality of acknowledging the passage of autumn. |
|
In my son’s bedroom is a skylight window. He has left home. On days like this, I am fond of resting in there, listening to the rain on the glass and thinking of him. Not missing him, well - perhaps a little, but to do so would be selfish as he has his own life now. The child has gone. The man remains. The room smells of him a little.
Robert Frost’s poem describes two farmers who, once a year, walk their boundary to repair the wall between them. “Good fences make good neighbours”, says one; the other sees little point in the exercise, but does it anyway. I like the image of a malevolent freeze pushing the rocks of the wall skyward, and the sun, you just know it, is that low-in-the-sky, orange, light of winter that passes close to horizontal.
Our winter leans at the door. In the southern hemisphere, of course, they are enjoying the approach of spring and the promise of summer. On Christmas Day in Bury St Edmunds, the sun will set at eleven minutes to four in the afternoon. My friends in New Zealand’s South Island will enjoy summer sunshine that day right up to twenty to ten in the evening.
Gonzalo is late. The sky is black, almost purple, with winter clouds. I mourn the passing of summer a little, but I know how much there is to look forward to. The solemn celebration of Armistice Sunday, and the West Suffolk Doctors’ Dinner which has taken place in Bury St Edmunds every Armistice weekend since 1919. The winter fair in the town, attended by people from all over the country, bringing business and bustle to Bury. Much to look forward to, much to enjoy. Have a great winter.
Robert Frost’s poem describes two farmers who, once a year, walk their boundary to repair the wall between them. “Good fences make good neighbours”, says one; the other sees little point in the exercise, but does it anyway. I like the image of a malevolent freeze pushing the rocks of the wall skyward, and the sun, you just know it, is that low-in-the-sky, orange, light of winter that passes close to horizontal.
Our winter leans at the door. In the southern hemisphere, of course, they are enjoying the approach of spring and the promise of summer. On Christmas Day in Bury St Edmunds, the sun will set at eleven minutes to four in the afternoon. My friends in New Zealand’s South Island will enjoy summer sunshine that day right up to twenty to ten in the evening.
Gonzalo is late. The sky is black, almost purple, with winter clouds. I mourn the passing of summer a little, but I know how much there is to look forward to. The solemn celebration of Armistice Sunday, and the West Suffolk Doctors’ Dinner which has taken place in Bury St Edmunds every Armistice weekend since 1919. The winter fair in the town, attended by people from all over the country, bringing business and bustle to Bury. Much to look forward to, much to enjoy. Have a great winter.
