“The snow has landed, literally and figuratively, even if this one here, resides on the sea” Gun Roswell
Snow and the very Calm Seaside
Oh the snow, the snow, the snow, it is everywhere!
No matter where your eyes land or you try to stare!
The glare of it all, when the sun is shining, which is rare, at least during the dark and long winter season hours, lasting for, well, the whole day!
There is no escape, as most of us Northeners now know, you know, from the snow?
Because wherever you just might go, for sure, there will be more snow there too.
As seen on TV, the planet in rather of a turmoil, because, of the, well oil?
So, try to enjoy the time, no matter how cold, wet or whatever other word you might think of, this seasonal cruelty, the Nature itself has directed towards us small humanoid types trying to play ball.
Then again, why not go to space? There is no ice there, right?
“They might not be as green as they once were, but those colours, albeit faded, are still, luminous“ Gun Roswell
Colours of the Season
On the ground they lay, in somewhat of a disarray, still, not willing to give up, not just yet, even if the colours of summer, having turned to fall, had faded, soon to be incorporated to the awaiting dirt in the shade of the dullest of greys.
But, no matter the outcome might just be for them all, no matter the fate, these, faded colourful tiny beings seemed to be hanging on for a moment longer, making the onlookers heart sing, simply because the resilient fight they are putting on, staying strong, no matter the odds.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” Charles Dickens
A Christmas Tale of sorts or as it goes: Can I have some Figgy Puddin’, please?
The year was 1845. I was about ten years of age and working as a stable girl. Our family lived and worked in Lord Hamilton’s manor house. It was Christmas time and as a gift for the servants, the Lord arranged a feast for the staff and their families.
Mommy had the children dressed in their Sunday best. My two brothers were complaining about the stiffness of the shirts. Starch was itchy and could cause rash, especially if one scratched the itch. I had my favourite dress on and my younger sister was a bit jealous of the red and green colouring. She was wearing a plain blue coloured hand me down.
After all the fuzz and hassle with the wardrobe, the whole family was finally set to go to the main house and start with the Christmas dinner. Us servants would be dining in the large kitchen. Several long tables were brought in with extra seats as well. This wasn’t a large household. With around fifteen servants and their families, well not all had children and spouses, all in all around sixty people in total crammed around the tables. The two cooks had had their hands full with the preparations and naturally every one that could had chipped in.
But now it was time for celebration. Everyone was finally sitting down and getting quiet. After grace the noise level rose again. Food containers were passed around and everyone was filling their respective plates. After all, it wasn’t often we got to eat in this manner and variety.
After a while, everyone had cleared their plates and it was time for dessert. My favourite was the Figgy Pudding. If possible I opted for seconds. As I got my plate of the delicious substance before me, I licked my lips and dug into it with gusto. It did not take too long for the food to disappear from my plate.
My mom looked at me with a smirk. I looked back at her and passing my bowl I asked: “Is there any Figgy Puddin’ left?”
I was smiling widely, feeling exhilarated, when the bowl was passed back to me with an other helping.
When the final bits were eaten, it was time for the traditional sing along. The farmhand brought out his accordion and after the first few tunes, we all joined in. The evening was spent singing, chatting and finally picking up the tables. We all went back to our dwellings, thanking the Lord for the special meal.
“Santa has it great. I buy all the toys. He gets all the credit.”Mrs Claus
Just call me, Mrs Claus
You may call me, Mrs Claus Without applause Doing my bid Without one single payment of a quid Yuletide Without this, proud bride Of Santa Claus Would be, just empty banter No kind of jolly Or celebration folly Neither for me Or even, for you
“There is snow on the ground again, a lot of it!” Gun Roswell
Peekaboo, through the wintery view
A forestry type setting As the son slowly letting The change of something Quite new and alluring White and crispy clean Still untouched not seen The view from behind The trees to a divine Setting from a fairytale Which is not for sale And lasting only for a while And then it’s gone with a cry But even if you manage somehow To capture the image right no You can see much more Than any picture has in store A moment of perfection Fleeting by to a direction New and most likely fine
“The grass might be greener, or well, there could be puddles of mud there, but I still feel like jumping over to find out“ Gun Roswell
Hop over the fence
No matter how many times I try to peek, I cannot really all that clearly see, what is out there, on the other side of the tall fence, because sometimes, the build of it is much too dense, but what I do see from the small holes, I know I like a lot, and despite all the warnings of being careful of getting what I had wished for, as what there could be in store for me, well, we’ll see, as I still really want to get over and have a look around, what secrets and perhaps treasures on the other side can be found.
So, hopping over the tall fence, hoping not to make any dents, not on myself in the form of a splinter nor breaking down the sometimes brittle woodwork, but as I finally get over the dividing wall, I can see the many reasons I got interested in finding out what lay there behind, and now as I am embarking on this adventure, well aware of the posing danger possibly lurking there, but I simply don’t care, as I can see the truth now, that of the grass indeed being much greener on the other side.
“The last ones always do hang on for dear life until the very end, funny that is though“ Gun Roswell
Last of the leaves to fall
The autumn soon passing as it like nothing else is forever lasting, the leaves of the season, turning to faded colours, soon to take the deep dive onto the ground, where a pile will only be found before the turning to dirt and dust, because it is a must, the circle never ending even if on this day, the leaves still spending their time on the branches in a surprise set of sunshine. But if tomorrow will bring some wind and rain, those leaves will be stained with prickles of water and then, they too will falter and take the plunge, into the ground as it was predetermined from the experience of the same thing happening over and over again, the circular fashion and the life span of anything in nature really, and so, these leaves too realising freely, that it is the only way. And maybe not to take it as a dismay, rather the sense of being reborn, come next time, the spring and warmth and then from the very dust and rain, blooming again, in a new way, in colours lush green, prettier than ever seen.
“There are so many colours out there during the gorgeous autumn time, and it’s all very pretty isn’t it just!” Gun Roswell
Leafy
The trees are all changing colour, as the greens of the now moved away summer, just a memory now, but instead of moping around, thinking of what was first found and then lost, look instead at the plethora of a new and improved scheme, as painted all over the trees, all of them leaves in a different shade, of yellows, oranges and the brightest of reds, before it is time for them to go to their winters bed, to the ground, not to be found before the spring of next, nevertheless, it’s still not that time, so smile and glance around see what else can be found, in these colours proud and loud, so to please the crowd.
And, before this fleeting moment has passed, because it was never meant to last, just like the longer version before, that of summer, now totally gone, enjoy the tableau of this painted multicoloured mess of sorts, as it certainly is not a bore, as each time you get outside into the nature around, you will find something you can adore and then realizing hopefully, that this brief but colourful time is a score, more than the rest of the year’s changing seasons, even becoming a sort of a cliched folklore, for all to know.
Rantings Of A Third Kind 