The Quiet Magic …

 

This is low-fog. Somehow alive, it rests it’s slow-roiling belly on roof tiles. Is held off the damp ground beneath by winter-naked trees and the sodium-flower headed lamp post. It’s streamers festoon the dark, glistening branches of the copse canopy, the double hedge that brackets the sunken path that heads down to the brook and back.

 

The air between the new-ploughed field and the base of the shifting fog sparkles with a gentle magic. It is suddenly a pool of air made thicker liquid by the lid of clinging vapour above it. Light has a different quality. Visibility is restricted and hampered. Sound is dulled and distorted. Distances confusing. The Dexter cattle, dark against it are different without the oaks behind them. The barbed wire fence they scratch against looks more severe. I am looking at, walking in a different world. I have to check realities, adjust my view. What I see is not what I am expecting. Indeed I know what is hidden, but just cannot see it: the tree-lined slope, the horse pastures (where the fallow deer sometimes graze), the disused barn, with collapsing roof. The familiar and usual is neither in these moments.

In the back garden our season’s first (and late for the year) redwing dips and shimmies, taking water from the garden pond. There’s another dozen or so migrants, perhaps a fieldfare or two, busy burgling bright berries from the holly tree next-door.

 Then, just the right side of shrill the confident tune of a robin, concealed nearby but still invisible to me, floats and echoes across this trapped world. Fills it. The sun-dawn light pinks new edges of gaps in the fog bank above, beginning to break through. The sky, so far away suddenly is pale blue.

Just starting to feel the chill, I will remain a little longer. This peace will not last forever. I will take what I can, while I can.

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2 responses to this post.

  1. Lovely use of language here. Sue

    Reply

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