summertime

There is a stillness in the summertime which is majestic. A stationary moment in time when the full flower of life is open. The newness of the spring foliage has become darkly rich and still. The flowers in the hedgerows and meadows which began the season of growth were like young brides ready for love.. They veiled the tree and the hedgerow in shimmering whites but now at last they have put on the garments of maturity. Their white light of spring has passed through the prism and scattered all that whiteness into the rainbow hues of reds and golds, violet and primrose. The sunlight dapples into the woodland trees from imperious heights and casts strong shadows and no one dares look a the sun. Here is power, strength, life and sadness.

Sadness because within all this splendour the seeds of decay are also at work. One leaf has turned. One petal has fallen. One stem lies broken. The summer has grown to be consumed and yet it could not be otherwise. Perfection would hurt us too much.

Perfection is arid and lifeless - beautiful yes. Often very beautiful and a we admire the perfect painting or the perfect story but the sculptor had to stop and say I will do no more. The painter could always add another stroke but had to declare that enough was enough. The word smith could always change another word.

Imperfection is the driving force of our being. The great summer’s imperfection is making for a better summer next time -adjusting and changing for the best it could ever be but a state it will never reach - and never must.

And we poor mortals who gaze in love at the imperfect glory of the summer are imperfect too. We have to be. It is nature Our imperfections make us what we are but they help us to grow - to be always striving to improve - and being able to.

Thank you summer for being not quite good enough -