A grey, somewhat cold, overcast day. It is my subjective impression that the sun seldom shines much on Good Friday, reflecting, in nature, the day on which evil seemed to triumph over love and all that is good. Fanciful maybe. Scholars would describe this as the pathetic fallacy – pathetic not in the sense of feeble but of reflecting something of mood of the moment. I’ve also noticed that in the autumn, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the most holy day in the Jewish year, is also frequently overcast, grey and cool.
There is no guarantee that the sun will shine on the Day of the Resurrection, this coming Sunday, but it usually does.
If it does I shall ride my bike down to the river and look at the willows, freshly greening as they follow its winding banks, and the nearby ponds where I once saw a pike and where for many years a family of swans nested. And perhaps I’ll go home via the town cricket field, freshly mown for the new season. There might even be a game in progress.
And I’ll wonder at the old, grey and many-roomed rectory and picture the carriages coming to and fro on its wide drive, more than a century ago, and I’ll read the names on the graves in the churchyard.
Everywhere around, half-timbered houses and cottages and ancient barns, restored for a contemporary use.
And on the hill above, a sombre note, echoing the architecture of Victorian prisons, the old workhouse, which took people from many outlying villages as well as the town. It’s now luxury housing..
As I leave the cricket field I’ll look out for the bank of daffodils which light its border every Spring. They’ll be past their best, for another year.
No need to be sad. They’ll return next year.