A few weeks ago, I was out on a long walk.
It was eerily misty in the woods.
Suddenly, the sun broke through
Transforming everything into
Golden strips of light —
As if greeting the early morning
With a hallelujah.
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The sunrise starts off
In lilac tones,
But soon it turns
Into a blushing dawn
With bursts of orange
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The romance of winter –
And the deep snow –
Never fail to surprise and please
When wrapped up in
A sky of pink tissue
And a bow of dreamy fog.
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The pink glow of the early setting winter sun
Enticed us outside to explore
The wonders just beyond the horizon.
It was a miracle of trees that
Seemed to float in the rising mist —
A wonder of purple and gold
Painting the fog with magic.
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With no warning, the temperatures fell
And the fog with it.
Wonderful golden fog,
Each particle of the air alive
And singing with colour and life.
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At dawn, the old stone church across the lake bathes in golden light —
Amazing to think that 800 years ago, someone looked at a pile of rocks
And saw how they could be transformed into something so much greater than the sum of their parts.
And as the sun sets,
Don’t ask what the meaning of the birdsong or the setting sun is,
Just enjoy the beauty and let them be.
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I love autumn and the autumn skies,
Especially the fireworks autumn puts on in the early mornings.
I’m invigorated by the sky’s soft blush,
The flamboyant colours of the leaves,
The dramatic harmony of sky and trees and water.
George Eliot put it so well when she wrote,
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”
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It’s early. Very early.
The fog hangs in soft veils as I sneak outside, camera in hand.
Suddenly, a screech rips the sky in two to reveal
A single heron soaring in the blue dawn.
He is joined by two more – a feast for tired eyes.
They whirl, they dance, they leave me breathless
Until they fade into the happily ever after
Of a new day.
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Imagine, if you will, the stillness of
The very early morning – the world
Wrapped tightly in sleep and fog.
Suddenly, the mist is pierced
By magical fingers of light.
An illumination of world and soul –
Where the light does not reveal anything,
But is itself the revelation.
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The snow and ice have melted away. The sun is shining
And magical light is flooding our senses.
But – before it’s too late – I want to show you the gold of winter;
The gold that goes unnoticed in autumn’s burnished blaze
And spring’s happy song.
Now, with the sun warming my face,
It’s easy to look back and enjoy the perfection of winter gold.
“I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.” — Rimbaud
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