And the way the sun and sky these past days have called to me, called to us dear reader.
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The way from our shelters we were hailed by the promise of a soft and blue August sky - how it’s been outside days and all that…
On the weekend gone, let it be recorded that here on the floodplain, here on this soil, the good denizens of the old river-town were subject to the most gentle and beautiful conspiracy, a magical ruse between breeze and light and leisure and sky.
And the way there are days that affirm the wonder of living. Days that quiver and tremble with the delicate pulse of being alive.
And let it be recorded in the news of the world, in the dispatches from this patch of sky, that on these just gone weekend days, well, tell them we quivered with coloured life …
The way such outside days make for tasting the world. And it was down by the river, by the stalls: and people and babies in strollers and on rugs and aromas and knitted things and all that.
And how it was beautiful and nice. And how I was in love with living and the river and the town again. Like when I was young and free and barefoot, when we lay in long grass and stared at the sky and cured green-ant bites with dirt and spit and all that.
The way outside days like we just had speak to us more than money and fame and jobs and stuff. The way they come calling to us from our childhoods, from our at-home-with-mum days, from our feeling days…
The way in their shape and shade they promise nothing and give us everything we ever really need, the reward for work and compromise - give us life and living …
The way on days like them the sun has the power of water, the way it washes away pain and woe, the way it warms the soil and heart and makes good things grow.
And maybe we pitch a tent and lay down on the river-soaked soil. On some ancient cedar forest floor long gone. And there in our yards on a beautiful outside kinda day, we judder with the force of life felt through the ground below, and from the distant sun above.
And on sweet sunshiney days like them we go back out into our gardens and yards. How in those moments under the tree, in those slow-breathing moments beside the geraniums the beat of the world seems easier understood.
And how I remember a poem that said the force which through a green fuse drives a flower, drives all our blood. And how I reckon that’s kinda right and true and all that.
And let it be recorded that on the days just gone, we were trembling with life. How down here, beside a meandering river, we were living bright and right and true …
And so it goes. Goodnight.
