There is no brilliance on this damp and soundless morning. The sky is a blanket, not a distant, bright dome. There is no glare, no cause for squinting, and the newly barren branches, though muted grey, are vivid in their lines, their definition. It is as if sight is somehow easier in this passing hour, a greater power than before, taking in the reality of substantive things and not merely the effects of light. Is memory in this moment likewise freed from friction? As we gaze uninhibited into the maze of trunks and branches and see the last of the dying leaves still clinging here and there, quivering in the cold breeze, are we reminded of – no, can we actually see – time passing, slipping silently along?

And if that, may we also see through time and to the red roofs of the old houses that once stood on the other side of these woods and imagine the people there, just as they once were, and remember them not as we always remember them, but in ways that surprise us and have the feel and taste of the early days themselves?

Can we hear the vanished voices and imagine the dreams that we knew nothing of in that day.