"And the day is a wounded boy." Garcia Lorca
Two is a fonder number gracing the clock than one--a relief from
monogamy, a rightful place to start. Three is too midway, cantankerous
in its sound, still four is drab and stony and the sun lies too low in
the sky for any truthful expression of real afternoon. Five is somewhat
better, the sky is pressuring evening and, by six, is big with shadows
that foresee the coming dark.
With seven, ambers and misty wraps are charged in pastel tones
celebrating the arrival of eight. At nine, all pretense is dropped that
its still daylight and colours lie bludgeoned--extinguished in the
dark. Ten through near dawn is blissful and quiet, no confusing
escapades of shifting light. Only the hour before dawn promises a
summer respite any different than the cue sung at midnight.
The absence of colour and light diminish confusion over the sun's
relative positioning. One need experience no mood fluctuations over
birth or hasty departure of the day. In the broad smile of no light,
the frock of virginal black remains securely intact.