“The ever-changing sky” – that phrase came into my mind this morning when walking Bess the Psychodog just before eight o’clock. I do not know if it was my own original thought or something I read . . . some time, somewhere . . .
Anyway, the cloud-patterns were superb, as they so often are here. Could that be the contrast with the open landscape about us? Now, just over an hour later, the patterns have changed as the sun creeps slowly up the Winter sky. There’s a golden glow on the tree-stark ridge which I see to the West from our window.
Sometimes, when a stretch of grey cloud sneaks to where the sun is moving towards its setting place, I feel that the light itself is slipping away. That’s obviously not true, of course, but that is how it strikes me.
Often, when over our village and across the Cambrian Mountains there is a veil of cloud, there’s that sliver – more than a sliver at times – of light to the West. It’s over the coastal places, but is in view from here in the uplands.
Then, as happens often, that sliver slips back towards me, broadening and bringing back its light. Oddly, I notice its return less often than I notice its slipping away. Or is that a natural way of seeing things, because loss is a more important event? “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” as Dylan wrote.
And I must quote one of my own sayings here: “It is the clouds which make a bright Summer sky interesting”.