Laying down reserves
What a rush it was this morning to be ready in time to catch the 6:05am train to London. Next week I'll have to set my alarm earlier.
We're at Newark now and the train is gradually getting busier. The clickety clack of the business types on their laptops is positively deafening, but at least it is too early for them to be engaged in their other dastardly commute activity - conference calls.
The amazing warm morning light sets the spring greens of the English countryside glowing.
Fields of rape are afire in the sunlight, intersected by electricity pylons, chain gangs marching across the rolling landscape, dwarfing trees and houses.
The moon rides high, a translucent jellyfish swimming through the blue sky, with contrail tentacles, dragging earthly oceans along in sympathy.
Mankind's endeavours, all straight lines and right angles, push aside and corral nature to do battle with entropy.
The overhead lines that feed the train dip and swoop between their supports. My eyes are drawn to their hypnotic arcs, then captured away by the black grooves of a newly furrowed field. What music would a cosmic needle play on those tracks?
What wonderful whimsies, the world viewed from the train window: a dozen swans sitting in a green field; boats moored along the canal; ancient furrows rippling the land; ephemeral swards of silver birch; forests of roofs and chimneys.
Every colour intense, distinct, vibrant, glowing. Shadows long and deep.
As the sun rises higher the effect will fade, the world return to normal. My soul feeds deep on these rare fruits, laying down reserves to withstand the aridness of London.
We're at Newark now and the train is gradually getting busier. The clickety clack of the business types on their laptops is positively deafening, but at least it is too early for them to be engaged in their other dastardly commute activity - conference calls.
The amazing warm morning light sets the spring greens of the English countryside glowing.
Fields of rape are afire in the sunlight, intersected by electricity pylons, chain gangs marching across the rolling landscape, dwarfing trees and houses.
The moon rides high, a translucent jellyfish swimming through the blue sky, with contrail tentacles, dragging earthly oceans along in sympathy.
Mankind's endeavours, all straight lines and right angles, push aside and corral nature to do battle with entropy.
The overhead lines that feed the train dip and swoop between their supports. My eyes are drawn to their hypnotic arcs, then captured away by the black grooves of a newly furrowed field. What music would a cosmic needle play on those tracks?
What wonderful whimsies, the world viewed from the train window: a dozen swans sitting in a green field; boats moored along the canal; ancient furrows rippling the land; ephemeral swards of silver birch; forests of roofs and chimneys.
Every colour intense, distinct, vibrant, glowing. Shadows long and deep.
As the sun rises higher the effect will fade, the world return to normal. My soul feeds deep on these rare fruits, laying down reserves to withstand the aridness of London.
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