Whispered Conversations.
- Ray Watters
- Sep 27, 2023
- 2 min read
Another grey campervan morning. A huge crow calls from the top of the oak, its loud cries dominating the air. A pair of magpies converse between rooftop and treetop. Various other birdsong permeates the air, a few gulls pass by overhead. The cloud once more heavy, a multitude of shades of darkening grey reflecting the light which is thick and murky. A hint of moisture in air, but no more than a hint. The breeze intermittent, but present, bends branch and bush.
“ The leaves themselves had voices, soft ones. They brushed and stroked against one another, and nodded and bowed and rippled and rustled, their interleaving gently stirred by the breeze. It sounded like whispered conversation.”
Jane Langton.
I have been trying to find the language to describe the sound of leaves in the breeze for some time and “ Whispered conversation “ seems to finally be it. The breezes chilliness brushes past my face letting me know it’s here. Its a strange morning I sense as Jazz Feylynn wrote the ;
“ Gathering seeds of thoughts, that blows away in the slightest of breezes.”
Difficult to nail anything down this morning. Any process seems to quickly dissolve into nothing. So just watching the sky’s shape change from grey to faded blue and the light brighten as I sit under the oak. In his book Meditations Marcus Aurelius writes that ;
“ The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts. “
At the moment mine are quite blank, so wondering what colour that reflects this morning.
It still feels warm for this time of year, the autumnal discolouring appears to have paused or at least slowed. Crazy to think it’s October in five days. Though I should be wary of what I wish for. So this morning is about whispered conversations in the trees and blank thoughts, which I really sense is no bad thing. One can have too many thoughts some days. Lovely days people.
“ Where does a thought go when it's forgotten?” Sigmund Freud.
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