1 hour ago · 15 min read3058 words · Music · hide · 0 comments

August is the deadest month.And somehow, even though you've been here so many times before, you're never prepared for the way that each week feels deader than the one before. Until finally it's the last week of August and it's like Time's clock has stopped. . . .Hang on a minuteI have a powerful sensation of deja vu. A sicky suspicion that I wrote exactly these words last year. Or was it the year before?Well, I suppose that only goes to prove my point, in a way.But this August... this August has felt deader than ever, no-thanks to the unrelenting stifling heat, discouraging people from doing anything but sit indoors and sweat. As our sexton Susan said plaintively the other day, mopping perspiration from her brow as she stepped into the rectory: "has the sky forgotten how to rain?".The footpaths are cracked and dusty. The grass in the meadows is crisp and brown. The trees have that beat-down sun-struck feeling about them. The birds are silent. Blackberries, ripened prematurely, are…

No comments yet. Log in to reply on the Fediverse. Comments will appear here.