Sunday, June 23, 2019

The Impossible Melancholy of Summer


The air is warm and muggy this evening two days after the solstice. I am in the woods and there is a of verdant beech overhead. The birds are singing still but the dogs are quiet, watching. There is circularity to these seasons; the pale naive opium poppies have blossomed since Friday. The wood pigeon sings its song and we are reminded that it is summer in England. And that the days are now shortening. There has been so much excitement about the solstice, about the party we planned three months ago (it seemed so far away), surrounding the rush to get things ready (a dog fox is barking in the woods behind me, rain is beginning to fall), to cut boughs of oak, to bring in stalks or wheat and barley, the pink roses for the table, that now, on Sunday there is an impossible melancholy. Not harsh or sad, but soft. It's a time for thought, and inevitably we are reminded of how short this little life is; of how important our friends are; to love only. 






 

3 comments:

tedsmum said...

Beautiful. thank you.

LPC said...

I also look forward to the solstice, it feels like such a peak in California. I am trying to do as some will for their birthdays, essentially feel that the time just after is all part of the celebration. I am hoping to coast for a few weeks.

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