Add the concentration of May’s anniversaries, birthdays and departures into the mix, and the late sunset becomes a relief. The cool, dark night represents an escape.
Half of the first night of May is spent writing and reflecting on the past four seasons, some of this time so far away now. Temporal and geographical closeness may be comforting but is only half-real: the essence of those you love is forever imprinted on your soul. The realisation that this is so liberates.
The second half is spent chasing sleep, which alternates between shallow and deep unconsciousness. Its fractured dreams of a magical place of spires and low hills, and a story of deep-seated love hidden like the ancient figures beneath the chalky soil, negate the need to turn back time.
The night has been long and I envy the oblivion-sleep of the children, the cats, the rest of the world. I have company now: the birds are starting to chirrup, a deer coughs and a pearly luminescence tinges the horizon. I have been welcomed into a new day.
