It was one of those nights. The view from my midnight gate: a myopic, cataract-obscuring gloom; a cold mist blurring the edges of our focus-the wall’s crowning like a diamond adorned crust, a new gift, a vision.
Within the night, within our perimeters, we need to know both our boundaries and our limitations.
It was one of those mornings. Crawling over the hill, a tepid promise for the evening’s hostilities; bait to entice us out into the town. Tidal lanes for those who consume or are themselves consumed, condemned forever to travel these seasonal tides.
On the cusp of the day, we need to embrace each new offering with both instinct and wisdom.
While at the football stadiums all around the country players and fans are observing a minute’s silence for tomorrow’s Remembrance Sunday, I just learned that Heart of Midlothian (Hearts) was the first British club whose players signed up en masse for World War One.
Sixteen players enlisted, and on the first day of the Battle of the Somme three died. Of the sixteen in total, seven died in the war and seven were seriously injured.
That’s the kind of statistic that brings home just how devastating that war was.