In the Parlance of Time
A storm had gathered during the night with torrential rain, the lightning illuminating the clouds. Through closed eyelids, the on off of the lightning gave a near continuous picture followed with snake-like wriggles spilling and tumbling in a couple-coloured sky. In the parlance of time, I had longed for scenes like this, as I in childhood sweetly slept, full of thoughts unborn. By mid-morning the storm had ceased, and the sun began to split the clouds, I could hear the rustle of the wind in the trees close by and the land with rain was now rinsed. As I followed the sounds everything was descending earthwards, leaves, twigs and acorns, across the cedrous bank the old mossed cottage trees were bent with apples, their fragrance and ripeness filled to the core.
As I halted beneath a large oak tree, I spotted a squirrel basking in the autumn sun, his tail dangling loose over the branch, his eyes suddenly became laser focussed on me. I stopped a while and drummed at him, placing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to copy his sounds, he was mesmerised. On the highest branch a male blackbird serenaded me, and I garnered the quality of his voice, he eventually but softly disappeared. All was quiet here, except for the whispers of leaves falling onto a carpet of wet beech leaves looking like burnished copper, where groups of parasol mushrooms were abounded. It was a sweet afternoon, cool, calm and so bright. As I took my ease, I could hear the mournful sound of the doves, a soft cooing, quiet and pensive.
In the distance I could hear the faint rumbling of a tractor, and as I looked across the newly ploughed earth the crumbling ribs of marl protruded and glared my eyes. I finally left this delightful place and headed for the rimes and ditches where the stilted water hens rose from the reeds into the sun and sighed in the songless day. As I continued my journey, I followed the roadside path, a place threaded with traffic, fumes and hurtful noises. I quickly crossed and entered the wooded area where a male bullfinch piped his little tune to contact and cohere his mate. Their natural soft notes are easy to miss, but their illusive wildness is so endearing.
In the ruins of an old building, one that belies its age, I spotted a mole surfacing from its mound, its tiny paws are joined by a withered stretch of befurred skin, I startled him, and in a flash, he disappeared into his underground galleries. As I ambled along, I approached an old mineshaft where undisturbed webs hung and wild things scuttle. Suddenly a yellowhammer broke cover and fluttered in short fears. On closer inspection I stumbled across a small box, I studied it for a moment then opened it to find an assortment of small trinkets. After examining its contents and reading Lily’s little story, I placed a short poem of mine inside with the fragments of a clay pipe found nearby with its carved schematic images. The small container was the treat box of a beloved dog named Lily who enjoyed her walks in that area immensely and had been placed there by her proud owner when she sadly passed away. It arrested me, for it’s in the surprise that much of the delight resides in this place.
At a nearby pond the black and white poplar branches bend with mosses and lichens in the water which is both dark and stagnant. I love the knobbly bosses on its trunk and its spreading branches. As I climbed the remnants of an old colliery mound, I stopped to survey the countryside, the land stretched out as flat as a flounder in every direction. It had been a lovely bright day, but as late afternoon approached, spirals of mist arose smoke-like from the nearby reservoir. The fading landscape swiftly disappeared into the night as the sun slowly sank behind the trees and the sky became besprinkled with colour. Cuthbert the friendly crow flew calling over the moonlit fields, his black shadow stealing alongside. A perfect ending to a lovely autumn day.
