Yesterday morning when I left the house the sky was the dark grey blue that spoke of the night just passed and the rain to come. This morning this had changed entirely and I was greeted by periwinkle blue overhead fading to dove grey touched by the pinks and yellows of boiled sweets on the horizon. The rain yesterday's sky promised did materialize and its touch had not yet disappeared today despite the contrast in this morning's heavens. Puddles reflected blue and grey and pink whilst raindrops still clung to cobwebs and flowers. As the train trundled further into the countryside away from my home town and towards London, the sky continued to develop - now yellow, now orange now the blue of forget me nots. The fields still covered by a blanket of mist, like children unwilling to leave their beds and wake up to the sun.
I sometimes wonder how so many people can sit on trains and buses and completely ignore the outside world. The sights I sometimes see when I look out of the window warm my heart! Sometimes I want to stand up and point "look, look at that, isn't it magnificent". I never do. Perhaps it is the photographer in me that looks and looks all the time, searching for something to capture, not wanting to miss that perfect shot.
I searched long and hard for a poem for todays offering and nothing quite seemed to convey the feelings I was trying to get across to you. However, I did find the below poem (which is quite long, for which I apologise) that I really do rather like:
MORNING SONG OF SENLIN
(from "Senlin, A Biography")
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)
IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!--
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea. . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me. . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains. . .
It is morning.
I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor. . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know. . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
Have a nice day dear readers
x
If only it were bed time.
image via Sabino
