Christmas is a time for slipping into familiar patterns.
I've seen how this thing goes, the waves, the ins and outs of the season.
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
Lots of people go mad in January. Not as many as in May, of course. Nor June. But January is your third most common month for madness.
There's no beginning to the farmer's year, / Only recurrent patterns on a scroll / Unwinding...
A long summer always meant a long winter to come.
The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
Every season something happens so I programme that in; something will happen.
We are full of rhythms . . . our pulse, our gestures, our digestive tracts, the lunar and seasonal cycles.
The constancy of the benefit of the yeere in their seasons argues a Deity.
