A photo in thirds. Bottom third is a band of green gras with three clock dandelions to the right. The next is a brown tilled field. And top is a grey sky against which stands a leafless tree

2022 Grateful 11: Silence

For three days in a row, the fog didn’t lift. The weather forecast promised it would burn off by noon and that the temperature might even hit 20, which would be strange indeed for the tail-end of October. But then, it’s been a strange year. With the fog came a peculiar form of silence. Nothing moved. The leaves clung steadfastly to the trees, with only the occasional drop, disturbed not by a breath of a breeze but by a bird on a bough.

A misty river stretches out betwen two green grassy banks. In the foreground we see the autumnal colours. You can almost feel the silence.

Every now and then a murmuration of starlings would take to the sky.  They moved quickly and quietly in formation. Not a sound. Even the warden crossing the lake moved noiselessly in the water.

A man wades across a lake carring fishing gear. Mist hangs over the water. Reedbeds line either side. You can almost hear the silence.

The disembodied voices of ducks were about the only sound to be heard. That and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Nothing else. It was so quiet on my walk that I could hear myself think.

I was reminded of the words attributed to Blaise Pascal:

All of man’s troubles stem from his inability to sit quietly in a room alone.

And not for the first time I offered silent thanks that this, at least, I can do. I can sit quietly. I can walk quietly. I can live quietly. I love my quiet. Some say I’m even too fond of it.

A three arched wooden bridge is reflected in the water beneath. Reeds in the foreground. Tall trees shrounded in fog in the background. You can almost hear the silence.

I don’t work with background noise. I don’t have the TV or radio on. I don’t have a radio. I don’t have a TV. I’m in the habit of putting my notifications on silent. This time of year, this autumnal mass of grey days, this is my time.

Tall tree line either slide of a long narrow road that disappears into the fog in the distance


2 Responses

  1. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…” I agree with all your sentiments, although I am a bit of a BBC Radio 4 junkie.

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