Nightingale

There’s been a lot of rain. But in the early hours, despite the weather, a lone bird sings outside my window. There’s such hope in that. Recently I heard a second World War BBC recording of a nightingale, in a Surrey wood. In the background there is a quiet drone of Lancaster bombers, heading towards Germany.

So fresh and sweet the nightingale’s song: I caught the scent of bluebells in that wood.

In my front garden today a few snowdrops bloom. In the back garden, shoots from Mrs L’s bulbs appear, sturdy and promising. We’ve been reading old diaries ….. reflecting on our past, Mrs Llew’s and mine. Some of that past is quite recent but it seems distant tonight. I dimly remember someone, somewhere, likening our life here to the creation of a tapestry. It’s a work in progress where the completed picture can not be known to us now. We see the threads as they go in. The time to hold this creation up to view is not yet. We can only labour on. With good will at all times to all people.

I have seen the dark. Perhaps some symbolism of evil seeped into my infant consciousness during the second world war. I knew nothing then of the pictures of Germany’s concentration camps which were later to dismay the world. But maybe the shadow in the human soul of which they were a dread expression pervaded my growing up.

Terrifying. But here now, in the darkness of this morning, a solitary bird sings. And in my travels I have come to believe there is a light that the darkness cannot put out.

And I recall the words of the hymn, about someone who has been there first:

‘I danced on a Friday when the world turned black /It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back/ They buried my body, they thought I was gone /But I am the dance, and the dance goes on’

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2 Responses to Nightingale

  1. lleweton says:

    Thanks, Valerie. It’s a razor edge, not overdoing it.

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