When the morning sun is low and dazzlingly yellow, the road sweeps gently up and around a low hill, passing a mature oak tree in dark full leaf. At the same time the mist from the wide valley beyond has flowed up and over the tree like a low wave. As the truck speeds past the tree, and the sun appears to race past it on the other side, so tiny sunbeams emerge through the foliage into the mist as bars of light and do so in a very interesting way. The perspective of diminishing parallel lines means that each is perceived as a long wedge of golden mist, disappearing into a needle point towards the glowing heart of the tree. Each beam fades in and out of vision as we pass and the overall effect is illusory, that they form the offset spokes of a turning wheel that has no outer edge.
High above industrial Brixton, I spy an unfamiliar movement and focus on a small pale hawk being circled and harassed by some kind of crow that is twice as big. They move higher and higher as the crow repeatedly tries to strike the hawk. When they have almost disappeared into the midday brightness the hawk turns away in a long dive, gathering speed all the time but, to my surprise, the crow keeps right behind him until they disappear from view behind a neighbouring factory.
Having skipped on to an empty bus at four in the morning to go to work, I eventually drag my stressed and exhausted self on to another at five thirty during the journey home. Miraculously, in the middle of a very busy rush hour, on this very crowded bus, the seat nearest to the door is vacant ! Phew !
