Tempus Fugit

Passing through Templecombe Station, Somerset, on the Portsmouth bound train, I was struck by the impressive sculpture of a railwayman consulting a British Rail timetable. The scattered pages lay before him, and the sculpture, also a sun dial, is entitled Tempus Fugit. It's an unexpected gem in a quiet corner of the rail network. My professional life has been for so long been measured by the passing of Sundays, each with their quaint and archaic nomenclature. We're now in the Sundays after/of Trinity, which stretch into the autumn. Apart from the Sundays, it was the school terms which dominated my life and marked time passing. Term time weeks would include the conduct of assemblies in the local schools, but in holiday time the routine lifted and there were unexpected acres of time when school duties didn't call. Now, in retirement, I notice the changing vegetation on the glebe field. In May and June, everything rushed forward in growth - willow herb, nettles, meadowsweet and thistles grew high, but as July approaches, the peak has been reached. Tempus fugit still, but it now seems a gentler passing of time.