Thursday 20 November

Last Day
This morning the light is like gold -
gossamer
laid through the trees and spread out over
St Martins.
It is a light that takes me somewhere else
somewhere inside myself -
familiar past.
I’ve seen it before, and will see it again, but now it is here - from the east of my recollection -

It lasts for half an hour, then the grey returns.

It has a quality to it, a milked gold yellow
( as opposed to gold red )
Though familiar, it is unfamiliar somewhere between the yolk and the white of an egg.
It does not shine or light everything it falls on, rather it surrounds it, embues it - makes it its own.

The world gives into this light
( for a moment )
takes it as a gift, a token.
and uses it as an embryotic fluid
the milk of the sun

(In fact) it is not if it comes from the sun,
more as if the sun carries it for a while
carries it to earth
to the land laid
that cradles these things as gifts,
as riches

This light is accompanied by a wind
strong, yet its edges soft ( as the light )
as silk on skin

both ingratiates the world with a soft balm
a warmth sensed with the eyes and cheeks
a colour sensed with the nose

light and air boyant
as if the space is tangible

it carries me
the light has a wish inside it
a sense of siderial time
that returns me

I feed the birds and think of Mary Poppins

I like the way the chalet is hemmed in by the trees, full of birds and song, the light and wind straight of the Atlantic.

That is Scilly, finally I am back here - for this simple reason.

Only this thought in this moment.

The upwards shouting heads of the micklemass daisies waiving in the wind,
one starting to unfold
the yellow intoxicating
brilliant
better than buttercups on a summers day.

 

At twilight the sky was infused with a soft crimson pink that crept under the cloud, as if finding its way along the split of the evening, between night and day.
( Chagalls sleeping poet )

Something was going on somewhere further than mine and the trees reach.

End of this.