> Here in these Northern Latitudes the weather is just as odd, spring-like
> much of the time, with blackbirds still seen singing and dying flies
> a-buzzing, while other days, like today, it turns into a cinema cliché of
> Victorian England, the fog is a-swirling and I swear I earlier saw both
> Nostradamus proclaiming It Is A Sign and Holmes and Watson climbing into a
> cab.
>
> ooh arr, these be profound things (wink)
Hi Dave,
I sent a response to this but I think it dipsappeared into where-or-whatever.
Anyway, your description also has a tounch of the bleak house about it. And
speaking of flies and dying - in whatever order - yesterday (10th Dec) was
Emily Dickinson's birthday.
I heard a Fly buzz--when I died--
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air--
Between the Heaves of Storm--
The Eyes around--had wrung them dry--
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset--when the King
Be witnessed--in the Room--
I willed my Keepsakes--Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable--and then it was
There interposed a Fly--
With Blue--uncertain stumbling Buzz--
Between the light--and me--
And then the Windows failed--and then
I could not see to see--
Apologies if my original reply turns up and clogs your emails.
From Silly of Sydney,
Jill
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