Gradually the impatience leaves; against the grey sky the fir tree moves so slowly, it is as if the distance calms the frequency of vibrations, takes the urgency out of the hot and bothered young man, gives him instead the serendipity of indifference, a future less of plans and ambitions, instead more of memories; of seashores and slate mines, aeroplanes and unexpected torments
The ploughed fields, ever bigger fields, with ever bigger ploughs, have accompanied his life’s progression thus far, but now the industry is falling out of him, the desire to achieve replaced by reflections of love; love past, love present, and what love might hold in the hours and days and weeks and months and years ahead, love of the many years ahead
The chimney stack, the weather vane; with less movement than the fir, are a slowness, a steadiness, a purity of times natural delights