Midsummer. Evening.

On the evening of  this longest day, 2014.

City Jackdaw

Everything still looks the same, but a line has been crossed.

Any change, any shift, will for a while be imperceptible. But things, as always happens, will gradually gather momentum until all is transformed.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” my father used to say.

They didn’t wait for him. He never attempted to outrun, or withstand. Once you reach a certain age, there is an air of inevitability about things. But there is no great hurry. We can live riding the rhythms of seasons, of tides.

The sun begins to set, it does not appear any different to the way it set last night, or the night before. But a person knows. That is our curse. But it is also a blessing.

Today has been a good day, shared with family and friends, and the things that count.

In the morning the rising sun will place another bead…

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Midsummer. Morning.

Not in some stone circle, nor upon a mountaintop, but in a back garden, to the rear of a block of houses. A sacred square of confederacy. In each house the occupants are sealed in their tombs of un-knowing. On the roof of many, a totem bird sings, a blackbird, a starling, or a sparrow. Harbingers of light, stealing a march on everybody, except the sold out hippy in a cosmos of community.

A waning, sharp-edged moon peeks through the lightening clouds. Crows fly east, the seeking Magi. More-robins, swifts, gulls, cry out for other. A bat flies one final sortie before passing on the baton. Trees stand still in stupor.

Out of place, out of sight, girls shriek out from a passing car. A raiding hen party, scrambling at dawn. Implausibly, the birds sing louder, in a claim of ownership, as the day arrives fully, drowning in coffee.

 

©AJM