With June has come summer. With June has come rain. It rained relentlessly yesterday. Thus, I was surprised to experience a delightful happiness and contentment driving along the drizzly road in the morning, gazing at the subdued greenery and grey skies. I thought of the beauty of the countryside even on this dark, damp and drab day. I thought of cosiness and warmth and how fortunate I am to have a dry home to return to. And how fortunate I am to be traveling through this verdant and ever-changing landscape. Today hushed and muted; tomorrow perhaps, scintillating and radiant.
I am reminded of this ‘tiny poem’ written by Charlotte Brontë when she was aged 13, and sold by Bonhams in 2013 for double its guide price of between £40,000 – £45,000. Why am I reminded? Perhaps because I had the dour sight of Bodmin Moor brooding in the distance as I was driving, and moors in all weathers and in all seasons share much in common. Perhaps I thought of moors and I thought of Haworth and I thought of the Brontës.
I’ve been wandering in the greenwoods
And mid flowery smiling plains
I’ve been listening to the dark floods
To the thrushes thrilling strains
I have gathered the pale primrose
And the purple violet sweet
I’ve been where the Asphodel grows
And where lives the red deer fleet.
I’ve been to the distant mountain,
To the silver singing rill
By the crystal murmering mountain,
And the shady verdant hill.
I’ve been where the poplar is springing
From the fair inamelled ground
Where the nightingale is singing
With a solemn plaintive sound.
And perhaps today – when it is indeed much improved outside, though maybe not quite scintillating – perhaps all of that was still in my head when I read Margaret’s prompt this morning for Ragtag Saturday: verdant.