At Day-close in November

I have always loved the poetry of Thomas Hardy. So here he is, as another November comes to its end.  He has been a long time gone now - but I hope that, one day, when the time comes, Jehovah will wake him from the dreamless sleep of death, and he will see this lovely earth once again.

At day-close in November

Thomas Hardy

The ten hours’ light is abating,

And a late bird wings across,

Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,

Give their black heads a toss.

Beech leaves, that yellow the noontime,

Float past like specks in the eye;

I set every tree in my June time,

And now they obscure the sky.

And the children who ramble through here

Conceive that there never has been

A time when no tall trees grew here,

That none will in time be seen.

I am thinking that, perhaps, during the Thousand years, a lot of the earth's forests - their tall trees - will be restored.  

The photo, taken by Captain Butterfly, is of a Spiny Puffball.

I had my Zoom chat with the siblings Monday morning  - all are OK, and Nute seems better, though still coughing.  It is not Covid which is a relief.

Janet's funeral will be on the 6th December. We will not be able to go, but we are going to send some flowers from the family.  I think Janet would have liked us to do that.  She herself knows nothing now, in the dreamless sleep of death.  But I hope she has a wonderful awakening ahead of her.

I had a big day out on Tuesday afternoon.  Captain Butterfly chauffered me and we picked up  some magazines, delivered some of them to another sibling, collected a copy of a book I had lent out, and checked on 3 addresses of people i used to call on, hoping to send them a copy of the current magazine:

https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/1117679443580926865/6104206027556572061

My blood pressure is up, and I have to measure it every day for the next 10 days.  I had a long chat with a sister who is even older than I am, and we bemoaned the difficulties of old age, as everything is wearing out.

I have decided I can still say I am in the November of my life - but that December is rushing towards me fast.  So this time of year is a giant looming metaphor.  It is beautiful though, as are all seasons, all months.  The creation has a magnificent glory along with a tender beauty.

And so far we - the damaged children of Adam  - have only had a glimpse of it!