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shapeofthingsAs the southern hemisphere begins to turn it's back to the sun, the morning light grows later, richer and longer.
When I rise on a week day the morning greets me as a rainbow thrown against the wall (fish tanks make great refractive prisms).
We don't see the sunsets here, no rolling mountain framing the view. The sun sinks early behind the neighbour's house, leaving trails of light to leak between buildings, sliding syrup-ly across the back garden but never quite reaching inside.
But we have the mornings, brightly gleaming, sending half-shadows skidding across the timber floors. Low morning rays picking out details for a mere moment each, then moving on.
This morning's rays hesitated for a minute or two, tangled in the arrow vine climbing up inside my study window.
When I rise on a week day the morning greets me as a rainbow thrown against the wall (fish tanks make great refractive prisms).
We don't see the sunsets here, no rolling mountain framing the view. The sun sinks early behind the neighbour's house, leaving trails of light to leak between buildings, sliding syrup-ly across the back garden but never quite reaching inside.
But we have the mornings, brightly gleaming, sending half-shadows skidding across the timber floors. Low morning rays picking out details for a mere moment each, then moving on.
This morning's rays hesitated for a minute or two, tangled in the arrow vine climbing up inside my study window.
