Of Silence and Sunday

Send us Fan MailSilence and SundayFebruary, and daylight creeps slowly, stealthily, silently, across the eastern rim of a rising sky.Hushed, are the winds, the trees and fields, as a single bird lifts the wings of dawn to fly.For it’s colder today; the shadows of dark, of night, slip across the empty streets, beneath the street lamps, naked of light and empty of meaning: the lengthening lens of light begins to open the awakening of another day.For nobody’s awake, just words, being written, describing, encircling, an awakening world. And beautiful is the sunrise, the ripples and wraiths of pink blossom and cloud, lifting the rhyme the hymnof early morning hours.And in the very moment of waiting, the church bells chime and quiver, the thick blanket of morning’s cold, the frost of starlight in veils of white and grey, spread invisibly: millions of fingers of diamond glass spread in fires of light and reflection across the ploughed and patient fields, deep in winter, deep in the frozen, deeper in the roots that keep the slow and turn of earth and sun,forever in motion.And above, the moon, the moon that was risen,now falls slowly, silently, softly in dreams behind the shuttered eyes still sleeping, in embraces of stupor or slumber, the people turn and moaning lift the day from pillows, to windows missing the first of hours unfolding, lost in forgetfulness, the words stop, the silence, listens, lifetimes in patterns of light at last, at last, [email protected]