Nuanced

 

Dawn is the vast convulsion of sight that is slept through oblivious of horizons and ever a space-time ripple effect, vast yet nuanced. Morning is cloud and magpie song and window dribble, piebald and nuanced. Morning is the dream we are fossicking to recall, goldmine of courts and caughts and coarseds and unavoidably nuanced. Morning is milk coffee at the screen displaying emails, new news, random posts, unwanted promotions, and the long read left unread yesternight, hypersensitive and nuanced. Morning is managing the crowd of plans, their tense demands or routine or tender, mindful and nuanced. Midday is announcing already, but largely unnoticed, the heights of colour, bold and yet eternally nuanced. Afternoon is thoroughly Louis MacNeice and nuanced. Afternoon will say a thousand things that must be heard and sorted by the mind into categories, for example whacko, f-a-s-c-i-n-a-t-i-n-g, obvious, delay till next time, gorblimey, yes I suppose so, yeah nah, patience is a virtue my dear, oh almost closing time, the skyline today is normative and yet um nuanced. Evening the cat returns, hungry and visible, his eyes a story from a back fence fairy tale, or academic dissertation hid in the stacks, cogent and nuanced.  Evening through the trees the autumn sunset and rooftops at every imaginable angle to the perpendicular turns cold and threatens rain and sounds of rain their frequency and patterns nuanced. Night is lamplight after dinner where my Renaissance informer in hardback feeds a steady supply of gossip and emotion and geography and theology both doctrinally sound blessedly and linguistically nuanced. Night is coming to terms with information overload, reduced to some essential particulars, that are foregrounded yet annoyingly somehow nuanced. Night is minds of electricity attending their projects with mixed feelings, interests scribbling across the margins, more revealing than the text, more truth-bearing and nuanced. Night is an extra layer and the answer to a question both ephemeral and nuanced. Early morning is fog so utter everything is indefinable and indescribable, leaving imagination to imagine everything in the fog as memory knows it to be, particular and nuanced. Morning is street lights going out and the post coming in, bills, supermarket flyers, but a letter personal and nuanced. Midday is a moment I miss, the background sounds of the world as wondrous and continuous as the tap-tap sing-song call-back foreground sounds of immediate moment, familiar and nuanced.  Afternoon is a chaos of wall lettering, an empty lot for redevelopment, traffic rising gradually again to incessant, the ceaseless city, grandiose, wounded, and nuanced. Evening is another day half done, and moments of peaceful thought about people, themselves and nuanced.