Monday, 22 August 2011

I say... What day it is? The Day of the Wisp?

It's Monday, and although I have only just returned to work I feel like I could be cut into the English Dictionary to serve as a metaphor of the tired man.

Only one scene redeemed the day for me.  I turned my way about the park, and looked down on the tiny stream that ran by.  Now the trees around the stream are dark because of the rich growth of leafage, but somehow sunlight, which was notably bright and clear, made its way through the branches to light up the scene.  I can tell you now, with great confidence, with the sunshine glowing on the wings of the little dancing flies, one might imagine they were wisps, caught up in a dance, and with the shadows and the tinkering stream and flickering lights I could let myself be deceived that I was not looking upon England no more, and that my eye was gazing upon some magical sylvan scene, of the sort to inhabit the works of Lord Dunsany.

1 comment:

  1. Your note brings to mind Celia Johnson's wonderful narration in Brief Encounter. The last line is positively Dickensian in length. Cracking stuff.