When the mists clear

Strange how things change and you don’t notice it happening. This narrow lane is bathed in light and I did not see it happen. I still don’t know where it will lead. I’m glad of the wide sky all around, the yellow gorse and the heather on the high moorland, the tight springy grass between patches of bracken, the occasional foxglove; and, here and there, a glimpse of the distant sea. I think gratefully of the ancient pub, its thick granite walls growing out of the road which is higher than its front door, the beer and friendly chat in the bar.

With this new realisation I look back on the way I have come and see darkness and drifting mists. I set out knowing I could only go forward and I was afraid. There was nothing else that I could do. Those mists and shadows are a metaphor for depression, no more and no less. But they affected others.

I met an old friend who showed me that that the darkness still travelled with me. It is time to turn away from it. But, as I do, I hope, and indeed I trust, that those I knew when the road was dark, will greet me again in the light of this lovely day. I hope they will emerge from their own darkness into the light which embraces all of us.

 A seagull wheels about.

A ship’s rigging shimmers in the sun.

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