England is at her beautiful best this morning. She rose early and washed carefully in some heavy rain; her scent is the sort of cool, clear, fresh, carefree that perfumers would sell their own mothers for glue to bottle; the sun is out, shining around a few wisps of high cloud; the air is cold but still; and the light is a golden wash that you could squeeze out of the air and drink. Or wish that you could. Even the East end of Bristol looks good in it.
It makes walking to work a pure pleasure.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
you see, that is exactly what is wrong with the English.... one nice day in a year and they get all soppy and poetic... (and it will probably be gray and miserable again by lunchtime).
Although, here in australia the whinging does get a little on the nerves during the two or three days a year when the weather isn't perfect, as usual.
Post a Comment