I had one of those odd ‘sense moments’ again this evening
when I went out at dusk.
I stood down on the lane where the bats usually hunt, but there
were none to be seen for once. Nothing else moved either, since there was no
hint of even a light breeze. We’ve had a lot of rain today and everything was
sodden. The western sky was still bright, but heavy, deep grey clouds hung
close to the horizon where a thin line of red hugged the trees on the skyline.
I was standing under the branches of the biggest of the centuries-old sycamores,
and the only sound was the tip-tap of water falling from the upper branches
onto the lower ones. There was a pronounced chill in the air, uncharacteristic
of early August.
Suddenly, a bat flew at speed across my eye line and circled
my head. And then it came back, time and time again, coming so close I could
almost feel it, but still there was no sound. A sense pressed itself strongly
into my mind. Three times the soundless words said ‘There are secrets here.’
A cow bellowed and a dog barked somewhere in the distance,
and the reverie – or whatever you want to call it – was gone.
I sometimes wonder whether I’m coming closer to
understanding reality, or just heading for the funny farm.
No comments:
Post a Comment