On the way home now: the other end of a busy day. The weather’s still great. I’ve just been looking at the huge cotton wool clouds hanging lazily above Oxfordshire. The afternoon sun is lighting them from above, leaving their undersides grey, and their fluffy tops textured and wispy. It’s a picture of a summer sky.
The train’s a bit busier this way round. It’s got life, from the young girls sharing a Sainsbury’s bag to the guy holding his phone like he’s on the apprentice. There’s chatter in the flickering sunlight.
I’m pretty tired. The last hour of the day was a flurry of activity, and I wasn’t sure at all whether I’d make the bus. It’s left me feeling exhausted and a bit on-edge to be honest, uncertain that I didn’t rush the last few minutes. Work is such a strange thing.
The fields are so green. I wish I had better powers of description - the shadows and the light and the fields and hedgerows fly behind the banks of little white and yellow flowers, and it’s all so poetic. Thomas Hardy would have a field day. Probably literally.
I wonder who else is enjoying this sky. There has to be someone out there just looking up at the clouds. I hope they see what I see, spread across this view, this England of green and white and blue.
No comments:
Post a Comment