online: 18 november 2002

18 november 2002 (millions at work)

13:13 I abandoned the intention of cleaning up and attending to neglected paper work when I heard on the radio that this sunny morning will not last.

A few steps into the heath I see a necklace of fresh wild flowers - white, yellow, orange - that someone has hung on a fence.

A huge machine drawn by a tractor is sucking up some of the fallen leaves - but it's leaving others.

Still misty and damp - I wind my scarf about my throat.

Several cormorants and a heron on the floating island in pond 2.

'The stillness of the morning' and the sense of early day - and of only a few people about (millions at work).

The sound of pond 3 overflowing through a culvert beneath the road into pond 2.

There are still yellow leaves on the new sprouts at the base of a tall sycamore that is itself completely bare.

The sun's rays in the mist made visible as shafts of light between branches.

A sprouting lime seedling casts the shadows of its leaves on the trunk of a small tree - a form of cinema that has been exposed for all to see from prehistoric times... to me one of the profoundest sights, cinema being what it's become, or what it may become.

The silent woods, not speaking, the green holly shining amidst the greys and browns and yellows.

Cafe. Walked slowly here seeing on the way so many such sights - as significant as any in the universe. An out-of-season bluebottle descends for a brief visit to the cake I am about to eat - perhaps with its droppings.

I was reading* last night of the Hindu perception of one's body and 'the world' being a single entity - temporarily borrowed for one's lifetime to accommodate and to realise the (imaginary or non-existent?) 'me' or 'you'.

Many small spikey leaves of larch on the wooden table...

...but the tea's gone cold - it's time to drink what's left of it - and to leave this other world of writing (half oblivious of surroundings) and return to this moment of voices, trees and country house and sun and two children sitting on the ground... and a crow eating crumbs on one of the tables.

*Som Raj Gupta, The Word Speaks to the Faustian Man, Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, Delhi 2001.

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© 2002 john chris jones

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