So,we had an extra hour to wile away,or sleep away.We had it ,it came and went without much of a fanfare.Its presence and affect didn’t register with us that much at the time,but now it’s Monday,I’m beginning to think that Summer is now completely behind us.Yes,it’s been sunny today true,but the light is destined to to fade that much sooner each day.For commuters,they face the prospect of a dark morning commute and a dark return journey,a tough time all told.For those who suffer with SAD,or seasonally adjusted depression,it can be a real challenge of the highest order.
So,like all states in life,there is a good side and often a negative one to factor in.Yes,when the clocks go back,we might relish that extra hour of slumber,that is,if we have luxuriated in bed and slept,but if,like me,you struggle with sleep,then the thought of not actually getting your needed shut eye tends to negate any remedial benefits.
When we are younger,oh how time drags on,we seem to dream more ,to wish our life away.That sorrowful state is often repudiated as we grow,causing us to suffer from the :”I’m pushed for time type sentiments”.So,this hour that we’ve all had over the weekend,these 60 minutes,these one revolution of the minute hand,tempis frugit,That metronomic 360 degrees cycle has happened for all of us in term,but maybe we each find our own passage of time.We were all aware of the extra hour ,but what we did with it largely comes down differing experiences.
As I think of the symphonies that I have listened to that have lasted an hour,the paintings in galleries that I have looked at for an hour,the conversations that I have had for an hour ,it imprints on my mind just what is done in an hour.We often equate our worth to an employer by our hourly rate,and this is a standard measurement.
My blog post conclusion centres on “The listening hour”:By that,I mean,that emotional gift that we can bestow of ourself by just giving of ourselves to another for one hour.It is,on the surface ,a small thing ,but if we were to call it that golden hour ,that might well make a different to the recipient of our time.
The Sun has come up,and we live,
We live because we must,but we don’t forget,
Forgetting would be wrong,it would be a betrayal,
Forging the future with some of her angle dust,
That voice,the Cornish,the Australian,That dialect of life,
Gone so quick,67 years of action,packed into a velvet curtain bag,
Never to be forgotten,never to be replaced,live on Donna,
Live on through your Children,your grandchildren ,your essence will live on,
If my sister had a star named after her it would be bright,
If my sister had a word to describe them it would be ebullient,
If my sister had a plant named after her it would be:”Sunrise crocus”
If my sister were an animal it would be a Spaniel puppy,
If my sister were a book,it would be :” Watership down”
If my sister were a car,it would be her Mazda,
If my sister made a wedding dress,it would be done in a couple of days,
If my sister went on holiday,it would be some place different each time,
If my sister thought that a young person needed help,then she would do it ,
If my sister believed in YOU,then no -one would change her mind,
If my sister came in a room,then that room lit up,
My sister was “one off”,”. A force of nature”
If you asked my sister her opinion :Then be prepared to get it with both barrels.
My sister,Donna Bird,”accept no imitations “,
Through it all,life goes on,
It weaves its web of existence ,
Forms bonds of trust and friendship,
It never stops moving forward,
Life is an ever growing thing,
Through good times and bad,
Where there is life,there is hope,
Every breathe from a loved one,Precious.
When life is threatened,then we talke an emotional stock take,
Life is good,essentially,it is so very much better than the alternative,
As the hospital ward door closes on the very sick,life still carries on,
From London to Cornwall ,the hustle and bustle of life outside ,
It is the way of things,life carries on,and folk liven as best they can.
Port Isaac (Port Wenn) hasn’t changed much,
It has a famous doctor,come surgeon ,
But not a place for driving down,
It has its charms,its faces,its stories,
It’s Cornish,it’s famous now,
It’s a prt but not a fort,
It’s a magnet for folk,Lord and young,
It’s swollen with humanity,taken up with it’s celebrity vanity,
But underneath it all,it’s charming ,it’s very old ,
It’s Cornish ,and proud of it.
It’s Port Isaac to me ,but it might be Port Wenn to you,
As the mist came down on a mild Cornish dawn,I reflected that it was of that kind in the annals of my childhood,it was that I chose to ignore those dank weather signals.These mists descend like the downwards glissando along the keys of the ivories.Feeling the emotional texture of this mist around Boscastle and Tintagel,I felt it’s silent conversations,like hidden voices in a Dickensian alley way in Mile End.People there yesterday,holidaying ,getting away ,the city folk down from the North and the midlands to sample the sea air in the last half term before the Winter gets in.
From along the coasts,the detritus of recent high tides have left their mark,their calling cards a plenty.Their flood boards in place ,because it’s a way of life down here,and the mist hides the sheer breathe of the tidal surges that penetrate the landscape ,talking to us ,telling it how it is.This is the landscape of the North Cornish coast,it’s spl it personality as such,and it takes no prisoners..Just a few weeks ago,the hinterland hosted the families on their summer holidays,with their memories of warm sunning days as they retreated the soles of their feet into the rock pools of their future.At Trebarwith strand,Bossiney bay and Crackington haven it was fun for all the family.Now,those families reside elsewhereon this septered Isle,dreaming maybe of their summer holiday in Cornwall.
As I visited my dear sister in hospital yesterday ,up against it now,I remembered Sunday afternoons on the beach ,sandcastles in the skies of our imagination ,with our dreams and aspirations .My,that was decades ago,and now,a different set of children make sandcastles in the skies ,and the best of luck to them.
It’s dark tonight,not a light in sight,
It’s dark tonight,it is you know,
It’s dark tonight ,it is you know,
My footprints,like invisible shadows,cast their spells ,
My soft breathe gets taken up into the Cornish atmosphere,
It’s dark tonight with not a light in sight,
With mobile phones to instigate its bulb glow,
It’s dark tonight and I await the light of tomorrow,
It’s dark tonight in this ,the seat of Arthur,Pendragon ,and Bolitho,
Long live their shouts of Excalibur,and long live their partner,Merlin,
This place casts its darkness about me,bringing back echoes of childhood visits.