Witness

Sometimes the mountain
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes
I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day,
to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.

Denise Levertov

The aftermath of Storm Doris (who seems to have enjoyed a second coming) has left our fells and mountains veiled.

And I might as well have been swimming when I returned from my walk. Beneath the layers, even my inside pockets had been given a soaking.

And there has been the sort of constant-attendant greyness that, coupled with irritation about the rain keeping one indoors has had the potential for getting under the skin.

(Oh, the perversity! – in one who is perfectly happy at the library desk!).

But the rooms of our home are presently housing assorted glass vases of Cornish daffodils – and no matter their size or shape, all appear to me to be smiling and nodding.

So it’s been up to me really. Be grumpy about the grey veils and ‘having to’ stay close to the warming hearth. Or look around me once in a while, recognising the festal presence of yellow and gold – and a million other life forms …

and witness.