For the past year I have been looking back. The previous posts in this sequence have reflected, as I see them now, intimations of immortality – to quote Wordsworth’s poem. I’ve just looked it up :
‘There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.’
The scent of green hedges in a deep Devonshire lane, the gushing of water from a nearby spring or the view of the sea from a gap in the hedge, recall for me now and from childhood, similar hints and hopes.
But you can’t capture these hints – of heaven. They escape as you seek. Put them in a box and they die. They live though, now as a present memory, though many of them stem from infancy. And they carry the same hint, or hope. Or promise
For the past year my walks around Oxfordshire have been restricted because – to use modern jargon – of the mobility problems of old age.
But as hints of Spring show through in my garden and my elderly frame tries to wake up too, I turn to the hints and promises of the Gospels as well.
I don’t know where that will take these posts.