Tis The Season

[Sweder]

A pre-dawn raid into the hills. The Napalm glow along the eastern ridge warned of impending sunrise. I turned my back on the town, loping into the west, arctic cold nipping at my heels. No watch today, just my old mucker Alice to keep me warm with rambling tales of rock n roll excess interspersed with rare classic rock cuts. A Jimi Hendricks version of Cream's Sunshine Of Your Love threatened to steal the plaudits as I crested Blackcap.

I turned to survey downland dressed in its finest winter bling. The sun was awake, a huge, blood-orange orb loitering above the golf course, impossibly heavy in a light blue sky. Ten minutes later it had shrunk and lifted, appearing to move along the ridge towards the valley. I smiled. Our great ball of rock had rolled and tilted toward our solar star. Those early Sussex runners would have been amongst the first to know for sure that the Earth was not flat. Still, you could forgive our ancestors their belief that the sun rose and set, clocking on and off for the benefit of man. It certainly seemed that way this morning, climbing steadily, changing from blood red to white gold.

I opened the gate for the hounds off the east side of Wicker Man Hill at the foot of Stables climb, glanced up and stopped still. Two heavily frosted paths, shadowed by the hillcrest, streaked away like torpedoes seeking separate targets. Between them tall grasses bent, heavy under Jack's overnight caress. At the ridge above us light shimmered with the promise of a wonderful new day. As I lumbered forward, amazed that this scene, so familiar, should touch me so profoundly, Mr Cooper provided the musical magic to bring eyes and ears into perfect harmony. David Gilmore's Ebb and Flow took me home on a sea of gentle rise and fall, a song of craft, guile and richness; perfect.

The song ended half a mile before I reached home.
I turned the radio off.