A bright, still December day – ‘sitting’ on the frosty lawn, a few feet from the granite-trough fountain. Momentarily I make it: back home, mindless, listening. For a moment I am the listening – have become in the brilliant light my listening to “His voice as the sound of many waters”. And then mind is back, needing to dissect the sound: the cold gravel of the surf on the shore a mile down the valley; the streams either side of the garden, charged and a-chatter on last night’s heavy rain, hurrying and unhurried, back to the sea; and a few feet away the fountain, a medley, a sparkle of sound: perpetual ...
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