Monday, 26 April 2010
The sky is filled with jet streams again, and as I write, I can hear the distant roar of an aeroplane (listen carefully, here comes another one). I loved the silence when the skies were emptied, jets grounded by invisible dust; and the sounds that emerged out of that silence, a blackbird singing in my garden, the chatter of starlings in the park.
But now the skywriting has returned, I am reminded of all the times that I saw magic within it; as a child, trying to decipher the patterns above me; as an adult, yet childlike again, seeing messages from my sister, after she had gone from this earth.
I still see heaven in the sky; as we always do, as we always did. No matter that the jet-streams are man-made, there are moments when they seem suggestive of something beyond us, or perhaps simply of our longing for what might be there.
Not that anything could compare to the untouched sky, and what it speaks of...
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to thee.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge