The long, warm, still, quiet twilights of summer, especially if there’s mist over the valley and a little drizzle in the air, bring me closest to touching what I’ve been searching for all my life: the magic that most children know and most adults forget. I never have. I stand out in it for long periods, drinking in the nectar of something I can’t fully understand.
Call it fanciful, call it wish fulfilment, explain it away as the disordered workings of brain chemistry if you like. It’s real to me and it isn’t going anywhere.
I wonder whether it’s a sensing of some connection with the natural growth imperative. I wonder whether it’s an awareness of a reality beyond the material. I wonder whether the two things are part and parcel of the same thing.
It feels Arthurian. It seems to belong to the world of Merlin, and the Lady of the Lake, and the three queens come to escort the King to Avalon, and to Siegfried's Funeral March from Gotterdammerung. And now I really do sound fanciful, I know. But it still isn’t going anywhere.