Third October Blog
The sun slants lower in the Northern European skies. At least, it does, in my part of England. Fairly southerly, though not at the coast.
It is gorgeous as it slices between the still green leaves of my cherry tree so that the colour range stretches from a pale yellow, through all the shades of leaf green, right down to the much darker, more shaded leaves, hiding from the sun’s incandescent light.
Sounds like I am on the old paintng track again. But then as I mentioned in my last post, I deemed that writing WAS painting, only with words. It has been my philiosophy since writing more fervently.
So, without further eloquance (I quote from ‘The Quiet Man’), I shall write a small piece and hope you, those of you not interested in art or painting, will forgive my artistic references occasionally.
******* Sareena stepped back and surveyed her work. Hmm, she thought, even if I
say so myself.
It was as if all her experience, as an artist, had suddenly reappeared after losing her abilties when her car was slammed into a few months ago.
Doctors at the hospital, feared she would never be sentient again. The coma, tney put her in, went on for many weeks whilst her body rebuilt itself.
OK, so her hand still shook a little. Only to be expected. Her wrist had been smashed and surgeons performed three operations so that she might have some movement.
Her memory was not that good yet, but they assured her that it would return, virtually as good as new. Though she herself was a little sceptical on that pronouncement.
Her current work had no finess, but it held promise, she thought as she cleared and cleaned her brushes. It was enough for today. The pain came back from time to time. Like a pressure point in her mind. When that started, it was best to stop what she was doing, get a cup of tea and sit down for an hour or until the headache ceased.
As she passed it, the grandfather clock boomed out one p.m. When the chimes finished tolling, the regular tick tick of the mechanism seemef to her like a gentle old uncle, clicking its way through the day. The sound becoming one with the regularity of the house, droning its way through another twenty four hours.
A comforting sound. One she had lived with for decades; through the hard times, the war, her children growing up, the passing of a dearly loved husband. Each tick of the clock could trigger old memories. Not the most recent memories that after the accident, had flown away, like a bird disappearing away to Africa, or some foreign clime, leaving winter behind. Her mind now was somewhat like a winter landscape; bare trees, their branches sticking out in all directions. Whereas in summer the leaves clothed the branches, rounded the shapes, eased out the sharp corners.
She had no round shapes now, just bare limbs.
In the kitchen, the kettle hummed as it began to heat water. Another instrument plucking a tune from her memory. Of happy days, of sad times. Times when Ronan came home from school, his knees bloodied where bullies knocked him down. Times when Ellia brought her prize home from cookery class, and the cake she had baked to deserve it.
Then, when she and Blake suddenly gave in to impromptu sex. The sweeping of plates and cutlery from the wooden table in their lust, only to have a quick clear up so that the children never knew. They were not so modern that they both wanted their childrens’ eyes opened to worldly pursuits just yet. Time enough when they were older to learn the ways of happy parents.
Sareena lifted the kettle and poured the hot water into her giant mug, watching the teabag bubble, oozing black liquid. Tea, the sustainng drink, the blessed nirvana of all mothers. Mothers who need sustaining when things go wrong at school, or your sons’s football gear is missing a boot, or special socks. Could be that your daughter has to have that yellow dress, and it has not been washed yet because the machine went wrong. All kinds of problems can be solved or eased along by a bountiful cup of tea, Sareena though.
The only slight problem, and, it was not so bad at times, was the trembling of her hand lifting the kettle and the cup. But that would pass.
A biscuit went well with the tea at this time of day. A time when her tiredness was at its peak. The settee called. A stool under her feet, a magazine in hand. Yes, she was getting a little better, day by blessed day. *********
Sentient days of the season drift by,
Summer is ending, winter is nigh.
Enjoyment of apples, fresh from the tree,
Of orange green pumpkins, soft soup for me,
Or carved for the mystery of scary Halloween,
Of choosing a costume, just setting the scene.
Trees turning golden, leaves drop from the bough,
Turning to brown leaf litter, autumnal now.
‘Tis the turn of the season, all misty at morn,
Lowering sun in a glowing late dawn.
Soon the chill times will greet each new day,
We don our coats, and in hoar frost, we play.
Hunching down necks in cold biting chills,
Watching sharp snowflakes, bite-wind giving thrills.
Darkening mornings, how glad we will be
When the New Year brings, spring herald, February.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. October, 2015.
Take good care everyone, be safe, and stay happy.