So-I went on, on my own-deeper and deeper into the silent Tunnel of the Ride-not so sure of where I was and yet not anxious either, not concerned about my companions nor even about the nearness of-certain friends. The trees were beech, and the buds, just breaking, fiercely brilliant, and the new, the renewed light on them-intermittent diamond-but the depths were dark, a silent Nave. And no birds sang, or I heard none, no woodpecker tapped, no thrush whistled or hopped. And I listened to the increasing Quiet-and my horse went softly on the beech-mast-which was wet after rain-not crackling, a little sodden, not wet enough to plash. And I had the sensation, common enough, at least to me, that I was moving out of time, that the way, narrow and dark-dappled, stretched away indifferently before and behind, and that I was who I had been and what I would become-all at once, all wound in one-and I moved onward indifferently, since it was all one, whether I came or went, or remained still. Now to me such moments are poetry. {Randolph Henry Ash}
( A.S. Byatt )
[ Possession ]
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