But is there dew in the city?

6263143213_7c18d3e69d_bIt is about this time of the year that I must put on boots for my early morning walk with the dog. It may not have been raining the night before. But we will both return with damp undercarriage and the need of towelling down.

The season of the dewfall is upon us and the song of Eleanor Farjeon ‘Morning has broken like the first morning’ calls to me across the meadow. For a person of my generation a song always to be associated with the Cat Stevens version; its vibrant piano accompaniment lifting the spirits to a delight in the newness in each day.

But it is more than just another day; rather it is a replay of the very first day.

This may be far-fetched but only when truth is sought solely through the candid researches of reason and neglects the gifts of poetic imagination.

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