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Weather
There is a time
of year when it is neither Summer nor Autumn. That
time is upon us now and the nights are closing in
fast toward Winter. Orion is rising in the
southern night sky and some of the trees are
putting on their best finery. The maple with its
reds and ambers, the birch dropping flakes of
gold. Hedgerows are heavy with scarlet berries and
the blackberry, past her best though still full
and voluptuous, is like a Hollywood actress
pinched and tucked once too often. Apprehensive
swallows girn and stammer from rooftops arguing
over which route to take. A robin stuffed so full
he can hardly fly has taken possession of my
garden and will bare knuckle prize-fight
all-comers.
Combines reap, the apples are
in harvest and the wind has an edge not yet honed
but sharp enough to let you know it is there. A
shift to the south and it is warm, endless rain,
to the west strong enough to lift you off your
feet. The north, cold, grey and threatening, east
and clear bright blue but biting cold. It is often
said that the British are obsessed with the
weather. In fact the opposite is true, we sit at
the crossroads of the weather and it is
obsessed with us. We are the raucous tavern
where any roustabout front spoiling for trouble
drops in to slug it out. Pretty maidens wink
seductively on twinkling ocean waves, we cast our coats and they
metamorphose into mountain hell-cats. We can have
snow and sunburn before lunch, hail, rain thunder
and lightening before tea, a gale before supper
and still go out to stargaze in a clear frost
before the fog clamps down for the rest of the
night. This to wake up the following day with the
certainty that it will be different and, sure
enough, it is a lead grey drizzle.
No, it
is not us who are obsessed with the
weather!
Frog.
© 2000 |
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