I see that patch of blue through the mist in November and its quality is unattainable. Everything else dances attendance on it. The crooked, coiling branches of the oaks contain their dark dreaming - some leaves might fall if a gust of wind should summon itself from the centre of the earth. There are walls here confining nothing. Their shifting surfaces release thoughts into the air. Pathways, trees, superbly crafted branches - a tumbledown greenhouse, poets in circles going round and round. And crows, rising like black shades where the leaves have fallen. Their cacophony beclouds the sky.
Everything depends on that patch of blue. Its continuing light fills every thought - each hope, each confinement, each fallen shape - right down into the next gust of wind concealing itself in the centre of the earth.
Jay
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