who by high ordeal

[hawkwing_lb]

The first day of winter, vivid and chill. The sky is blue and clear, bright with late-autumn sun. Tide along the shore was middling high, on the ebb, the lighthouse shocking white at the end of the harbour, seagulls stood like feathered sentinels in a line atop the seawall. Along the trainline, the fields are a vivid, painful green, riven with darker green-brown thatchy hedgerows and ditches. Seawards, the horizon is a sharp line between white and blue.

This morning I feel like I'm grieving, but I don't know why.

A day for the saints and for the dead. It seems appropriate.

Comments

[helivoy.livejournal.com]

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Rainer Maria Rilke

[hawkwing-lb.livejournal.com]

*salutes*

[helivoy.livejournal.com]

I recited it because I thought it paralleled what you're feeling: the melancholy occasioned by the pivoting of the seasons into winter, punctuated by hallows' eve "when the doors are ajar between the worlds".

[hawkwing-lb.livejournal.com]

It does, at that.