This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure.
Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun,
Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compassion,
This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.

                                                                                                                      Wilfrid Scawen Blunt


Flaming June. It's been dry, the grass is high with soft tufts of downy flowers, shades of purple, green and palest silver. Buttercups and daisies shine from the browning thatch, rejoicing in the fact that the mower has been kept at bay. Bright thoughts, happy faces, a golden glow - does she like butter? Smiling little children, with their pudgy hands plucking flowers from the lawn. My mind, looking down, sees my own hands as my mother's faux pearl necklace vies for position with a more precious chain of daisies.

A month of fond memories, and birthdays, and also death days. Sadness wrestles with joy, fear for the future, reliving the past, the good, the bad and the ugly. Soft tendrils of remembering push at my thoughts just as grassy fronds brush against my fingers and toes.

Once more the Solstice, the dizzy height of summer, nature standing still to bask in warmth for a brief few days. Celebrations. Joy. Push away the knowledge that darkness approaches stealthily. Push away the thought of blue flowers - the funeral flowers, and the pansies you see smiling through your cut-glass tears. Wrap yourself in the blanket of my warm arms, feel the gentle summer breeze and soak up the night scent of jasmine.

Live for the moment, be in the now, for this is the hour.

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