Monday, 14 December 2015

During Wind and Rain

Hair Moss, Polytrichum commune
The weather, the year coming so quickly to its end, and my seventieth year approaching rapidly makes me feel it is time for Thomas Hardy.

by Thomas Hardy
(Moments of Vision)

They sing their dearest songs -
He, she, all of them - yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
     And one to play ;
With the candles mooning each face...
     Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss -
Elders and juniors - aye,
Making the pathways neat
     And the garden gay ;
And they build a shady seat...
     Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all -
Men and maidens- yea,
Under the summer tree,
     With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee,,,
     Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them - aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
    On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs...
    Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

I walked to the shops this afternoon, taking my library books on the way.  Captain B had my car as he was at Jackie's trying to fix her computer, which seems to have gone awol during her illness.

We - the Captain, Terry, Jacks and me - are going to the talk at the Wetland Trust tonight.

And I sent a copy of "Till they Dropped" to Lilian of Expatland, with a little card and a Kingdom tract.  I am hoping she has resumed her Bible study.  And I got a thank you card from Dave - a gentleman on my magazine route who I never see and who I have to post the magazines to every month.  I haven't heard from him or seen him for years now... and have wondered if I have been sending the magazines, cards and letters into the void.  So the card was very encouraging.

How often Jehovah sends us encouragement when we are feeling a bit down.

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