While devious politics goes on in our present weird version of democracy, some good sense and a reminder of our sane, wonderful life that proceeds uncluttered, un-uglified, comes in a brand new poem today from that gifted wordsmith, Robert Graham.
|Heavenly ... A look into the heavens from Estes Park, in the US. Photo by Paige Weber (@paigewtothewon) on Unsplash, and thanks to both.|
As a seafarer and singlehanded Cape Horner, I have a special affection for the northern heavens.
Each time I've sailed up from the southern hemisphere, often from near the Roaring Forties, I wait impatiently, almost anxiously, for our view of the heavens.
The southern constellations can be truly wonderful out there hundreds and hundreds of miles from the nearest human.
I watch the Southern Cross pass overhead and then lower into the southern horizon.
I search for the magnificent Polaris, but the real treat is suddenly, magically spotting The Plough as the constellation starts to climb from ahead, and as star after star in the seven-star constellation comes on view, I try to call each by name.
|Magical Plough ... It can be a challenge digging deep to name of the constellation's seven stars. Many thanks to Wikipedia for the image.|
AM, AM, PM, I recall, then try to put names to the initials.
Memory often refuses to fill in the missing letters, although Dubhe at the top of the container comes easy.
Magical for landlubbers
Merak, just below, isn’t forgotten because it is so similar to the name of a special Australian friend from yesteryear, and Phecda next door is recalled for, well, another reason.
However, autumn heavens are magical for landlubbers, too, as Roberto proves with his latest verse, on his Healing Gardens website here ⇒⇒
Thanks very much for visiting the mostly Tuesday and Thursday blogs for my adventure book, Sailing to Purgatory, which are introduced each time on Facebook Facebook dot com/Sailingtopurgatory and on Blogger,