"The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings,
facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in
intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle
awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape:
or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while
partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern
to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps,
to control the steps of the dance.”
from A Question Of Upbringing:
A Dance to the Music of Time
Anthony Powell
Autumn is here, meaning the garden is almost done
but there is still time for a few last looks.
A seasonal dance.
A few moments to bask in the warm winds
and golden light.
"the distant pounding of centaurs' hoofs dying away,
as the last note of their
conch trumpeted out over hyperborean seas.
Even the formal measure of the
Seasons seemed suspended in the
wintery silence. "
from Hearing Secret Harmonies:
A Dance to the Music of Time
Anthony Powell
