Spring 1964 • Vol. XXVI No. 2 NonfictionApril 1, 1964 |

An Evening with Verena

This sad afternoon there was neither rain nor shine, nor honest fog, nor a decent scudding and scurrying of clouds, but a gray neutrality of all, an eventless sky that had neither height nor depth nor color, an air wet enough to chill, cold enough to be nearly nasty, a flat landscape fudged out of sour, dull, pointless greens. I walked in the wood. Next week the leaves would turn. Oakwood here, floored with uniform bracken; better at any rate than the wood next door, of beech and waist-high nettles. In rare gaps of my bracken were little outbreaks of a few useless fungi, Paxillus futilis, Lactarius inedulis, Russula emetica; and Amanita phalloides, not useless at all if you wish to dispose of an emperor. At the edge of the wood, dividing it from the muddy lozenge of a field of beet, a shallow, black, bitter stream, all silence and shadows, pulled the thin wires of its waterweeds one way. I thought, in the air as I jumped it, a thought that is often with me on these solitary sear

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By Hilary Corke

This sad afternoon there was neither rain nor shine, nor honest fog, nor a decent scudding and scurrying of clouds, but a gray neutrality of all, an eventless sky that […]

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