Sigoth bemoaned the weather again today, as he has done for several days recently. I don’t blame him. We are British, so the weather is how we communicate with each other. It defines our moods, our relative positions in life and our ability to function in the morning. As such, starting the day without a quick weather-related sanity check would be unthinkable in EBL Towers. And so it was.
Apparently he has noticed it has been wet. I demurred.
“Foggy,” I insisted.
“No!” quoth he. “Wet! The ground is absolutely sodden.”
Well, he should know. He does things outdoors for fun, up close and personal with the earth, and we live on Jurassic moraines of boulder and Kimmeridge clay, so wetness or dryness is immediately apparent.
I sit inside, working at the computer, and only gaze out of the window into the distance. The distance is considerably closer of late, due to the fogs. Well, mists really. But where’s the drama in that?
The problem is obviously that he focuses on the near and I on the far. But Literature is on my side, so I share with you that great poem of 1844 by the lesser known poet, Thomas Hood:
No sun–no moon!
No morn–no noon!
No dawn–no dusk–no proper time of day–
No sky–no earthly view–
No distance looking blue–
No road–no street–no “t’other side this way”–
No end to any Row–
No indications where the Crescents go–
No top to any steeple–
No recognitions of familiar people–
No courtesies for showing ’em–
No knowing ’em!
No traveling at all–no locomotion–
No inkling of the way–no notion–
“No go” by land or ocean–
No mail–no post–
No news from any foreign coast–
No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility–
No company–no nobility–
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member–
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds–
Regular readers will recall I enjoy chucking in a poem or two now and again. It saves me having to think up words all by myself.
Do you have a poem or quotation that describes your day today?
And even if your days are dark and foggy, may your hearts be sunny and bright.
This is perfect timing for me today, thank you for this ((hugs))
Glad to be of service!
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.”
― Clyde Watson
This reminds me of conversations with W. This morning he called excitedly for me to come and take a look at all the snow in the backyard. What the hell for?? It’s November. There’s snow. Leave me alone. lol
I really like your poem – thank you! “Earth sinks to rest until next Spring” is perfect 🙂
How little November has changed since Hood’s day. Those mists totally alter our perspective don’t they?
Indeed they do. I often find them comforting like a blanket, rather than negative.