A Fresh Northeasterly

This is my shadow at about 1445 today, long from the southwest, facing the fresh (biting) breeze.  We were off to find some blackthorn to pick the berries for sloe gin.  There were none in this direction owing to the tidying that had been carried out on the footpath beyond the gate in the distance.

But Madame SharpEyes had noticed a bush full of black berries just before we parked at the church – St John's Church in Cockayne Hatley.  We returned to the spot where we managed to pick over 600g before the gathering dusk and cold persuaded us that it was time to head for home.

I have a photo of the graveyard at Cockayne Hatley, beside St John"s Church, where is buried the poet W E Henley, of "Invictus" fame.  The poem on the gravestone is beautiful, and suits the idea of a low sun – taken literally, of course.

Long may it be a quiet place of rest for those buried there.  This is the whole poem, but the grave is inscribed with the last verse:

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, grey city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.


The smoke ascends in a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley,
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.


So be my passing!
My task accomplish'd and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gather'd to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.

William Ernest Henley (1849 to 1903)