I have to admit that I had to look up the meaning of 'crepuscular'. I have a reasonably good vocabulary but this is a new one. Once I knew that it is actually twilight I began to recall some lovely memories. I was immediately transported to Tarn Hows in the Lake District where the quality of light at the end of a long summer day was surreal. A pink glow that reflected off the water and imbued a magical quality onto the landscape.
I think of my previous garden at the end of a spring day when a lone pipistrelle bat darted around my head in response to my shrill, toothy whistle. It was wonderful to interact with a wild creature in such a way. Later in the summer, the bat would remerge from roosting with her baby and I would enjoy their twilight sojourns before they left in the autumn.
Close encounters with nature often occur in the short time between night and day. I have seen urban foxes leaping over garden walls in busy roads and sometimes have been lucky enough to see barn owl when driving at the close of day. I have written about my close encounter with a magical hare on a country lane near Esprick: All these incidents help to reinforce that twilight is my favorite time of day.
Last week, driving home from a 'Spooky Men' concert in Clitheroe, the mid-summer night sky was still blue-white and Venus was highly visible, glittering like a silver button. For a while, I thought that it was an aeroplane but it remained glued to the spot as my journey progressed. It is a beautiful sight. There is one twilight encounter that I value more than any other: Every now and then I see a ghostly creature
Supernatural
An almost indistinguishable moment,
A flicker in the blinking of an eye,
Frozen in the seconds in between,
The red'ning and the blackness of the sky.
In that special space in time that hovers,
Where the setting of the sun absorbs the light,
Before the backdrop curtain starts to sparkle.
Begins the wakening of creatures of the night.
Furry things in burrows start to ruffle,
Ears and noses poke above the ground,
Twilight flies surge from attic rafters,
bat-wing shadows swoop and switch around.
As the sky is filled with eerie softness,
The gentle ghost goes searching for his prey,
Whiter than the pure first snow of winter,
The barn owl shakes the daytime sleep away.
Silently he brushes past the hedgerow
Eyeing tiny movements on the ground,
A helpless death-cry pierces through the silence
and peaceful dusk is shattered by the sound.
In the darkest part of twilight, you may see him,
slaloming among the bales of hay,
where he maintains his silent, secret vigil,
in-between the darkness and the day.
Glad to be back. Thanks for reading. Adele
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