It’s 5.45 in the morning. The sun has not yet risen but it is painting the few fluffs of cloud a myriad of colours. Some are a delicate pink, others a whipped cream, a few dark and ominous. The night sky has gone now but the full glare of the summer sky has not appeared. It is a gentle, filmy blue; a water-colour sky.
To the west the full moon is beginning to set. It is large and bright, like a sixpence nailed to the sky. It is a whole cheese, certainly, a white cheese, a Brie or a Camembert. Maybe a very young Cheddar. The seas are dark and vivid, a happy face with a lop-sided smile.
The moon has been queen for the night. I get the impression that she’ll find the young sun rather brash and tiresome. She’ll be happy to retire for the day.
No cockerel welcomes the dawn here. The raucous screams of seagulls punctuate the cooing of the collared dove which perches on our terrace. What is it calling to, the sun or the moon? Or the dim cry of its mate in the far distance?
There is a cool wind today. The heat-wave is, perhaps, over. A turning point.