Sundown Dreams

I love sundown in my garden. There is a certain point everyday where a beautiful stillness falls. After a sunny afternoon the light changes subtly to a rich golden colour making everything look soft and warm. The sun has gone from the garden but still shines through the trees, illuminating one side of their trunks, giving them a magical quality. I like to sit and watch from my window at this time of day.

One of my favourite things is to look through the trees to the Blackcurrant field which takes on the appearance of a painted backdrop, like on those old films where they had a painted background beyond the window. It has a hazy dreamlike quality, feeling almost surreal even though I know it is really there. At sundown the garden becomes shady and dark yet the sun is still shining beyond the trees, almost as if it’s another day over there beyond the trees, maybe today starting over; maybe tomorrow starting early or maybe even a glimpse into another world.

At this time of day the birds’ activities start to die down. Mostly the little birds stop visiting the feeders apart from the occasional hungry one popping in for a snack before roosting. The Pheasants can be still seen wandering about in the wood but even they seem to take on a much more relaxed manner. Almost as if they are out for an evening stroll, enjoying the last burst of sunlight.

As I look above the trees I see Woodpigeon flying overhead. The sun shines on them, illuminating them making their pink breasts glow and the white on their neck and wings shine brightly. They seem at their most graceful at this time of day, soaring above the wood, enjoying the last rays of the sun. Occasionally a flock Jackdaws will come over on their way to roost, they soar above the trees calling their ‘Jack, Jack’ call. To me the Jackdaw has a very atmospheric call; it is a sound of freedom and open spaces.

It becomes very quiet and peaceful out there. The only sounds being the occasional Pheasant calling or distant dog barking and the relentless song of the Song Thrush. He calls on and on, repeating his sweet song over and over, never seeming to tire. It is such a loud song from a small bird. To me his song is the sound of my late Grandmother’s garden; there always seemed to be a Song Thrush or two around in her garden or in the wood behind it.

Eventually the light fades, becoming pink and then finally giving way to darkness. The Song Thrush calls on until the light has totally gone. Night time begins and the Tawny Owl and the bats come out to play.