Symphonica: Movement VI

I have the strong urge to return once more the bountiful tranquility of Le Lac, the little lakeless village located in the heart of France. No need to tell you again of its inhabitants; they have been described enough.
I will now take you just a little outside the village. In fact, we are now standing at the small signpost just by the edge of the last house, shutters firmly closed of course. It’s a little steel-gray post, with a black (white-edged) plate attached to it, with on this sign the name of the village written in boring, white letters. It is placed at the border of the modest eminence the town is built upon, the road gracefully diving into the river valley below, between large and rolling meadows of mixed grasses and patches of trees. Some of the more wilder plants and undergrowth blossom at its feet and softly sway in the often delicate winds, breezes and zephyrs that visit the hill.

Sunset would be the best time to visit this signpost, when the dying sun illuminates not only the open sky above (a few hesitant, but lambent stars appearing), but also the white letters forming the town’s name. They burst into a golden glow, fervently reflecting the dying of the skies. Even the black around the two singular words is somewhat lightened. Of course, without the dark surrounding them, the blooming letters would probably loose some of their portentous lustre. So, we should not bother too much with this shadowy cloak and enjoy the luminescent spectacle everywhere around us. The clumps of trees, a thousand shades of green, are now turning a unified orange. The nictitating meadows and fields are basking in the fierceness of a mortal and perishing star, whilst the few traipsing cows beaze to rid themselves of the day’s light rainfall. Even the concrete electricity posts seem to become things of wondrous beauty, the electrical cords hanging between them becoming straggling webs of moribund brilliance caught within, almost dropping aurulent drops of molten vividness.

Are you not pleased that you have joined me here? I see your flaxen hair blowing in the evening breeze, the cores of your eyes lit by the incandescent splendour ranging across the range of your sight. Even after the final honeycomb rays are exitinguished and die out, those deep and fathomless cores retain a radiance, one final smoldering cinder to remember a dusk never remembered before. And all this just to see a small signpost.