5.09.2021 The perfect view?

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Sunday 5th 53F. Bright and sunny. Just my usual walk. As I returned home a  small bird of prey flew over our house. Probably a sparrowhawk. It took fright and shot away. My hastily captured pictures were hopeless.

Talking of which,  I never tire of this particular view. I photograph it repeatedly. Probably hundreds of times by now. Always using slightly different viewpoints and focal lengths as I shuffle back and forth along the verge. There is something about the multiple layers of hedges stretching off into the distance. Each, another 200 yards, or more, further away than the last.

The constantly changing inclinations and unlikely textures throughout the year. Crops in the fields come and go. From bare earth to grain then bales and stubble. The endless cycle of the passing millennia. The foliage, blossom and berry in the hedges is always unexpected. The light is never the same. 

The sky an ever-changing backdrop. Mist, snow, rain and sunshine all provide fresh insights. The ground rises sharply to the right but cannot be included in this perfect view. A tall hedge intercedes and I would have it no other way. Roadside hedges are in such short supply, just here. Deer and hares graze against these distant hedges. Cats hunt in stealth profile. Each safely sheltered from weather and chance oversight. 

The warming sun behind me blinds them to my presence. So few walk this lane anyway. Not these days. Drivers have no time to soak it all in. They have no concept of what lies out there. Beyond the penultimate hedge or the last. The few paths, the untidy farms and the bird-covered lake. Nestling amongst mature trees on its time-worn banks. The laughter of ducks and the odd, unexpected cry from out on the still water. 

The distant churches a fading memory of unison amongst the retired and retiring flocks. The gravestones symbolising a far simpler time to exist. Their tales of their own catastrophes, relationships and troubles went to the grave along with them. It was ever thus and always shall be. Our own stories are hard won. Our own and few are privy to our inner thoughts and feelings. 

The "what ifs" are quietly washed away in the fading light. Of quiet, dull acceptance of our failure to perform our daily rituals without complaint. Our time served on this old earth going largely unnoticed. Barely a dent or a scratch as testament to our having ever been here. Closed like some dusty volume in a long forgotten library of unread books.

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