LIGHT AND COLOURS IN SHEFFIELD

Ricardo C. Cabús
I always thought about England as a
cinereous country. Perhaps my mind was
still in the Industrial Revolution, with its
smoke grizzling even more a sky already
permanently hidden by dense clouds. Worse
still, the English post-war architecture had
defined brown-greyish as the dominant
colour, visible in never-ending walls of
terraced houses with naked bricks.

However, life in old Albion showed to me, little by little, a countenance of colour, light and life. Although not so often, clear
skies happen, and, being rare, are more beautiful. It is one of these days that I will describe as I ramble through the
following paragraphs, leaving Sheffield, former industrial city in the north of England, in the direction of the Peak District, a
park of a similar area to the Brazilian National Park of the Chapada Diamantina and with fauna and flora diversity
comparable to that in my grandfather’s back garden.
The stroll starts from Endcliffe Park,
where the yellow of the autumn flowers
goes up a grassy slope
to a completely blue celestial vault,
leaving the auburn bricks
to diminish at each step.
It is pleasant to see Brazilian colours
scattered in the British landscape.
Taking the west route,
the first stream cannot wait to appear,
where the light can play, rebounding
between the rocks and twigs
or dive in frozen and limpid waters.
It is a moment for aesthesia,
when the sound of the waters
wets the smell of the wind
that illuminates the trees.
And the lane follows the stream,
snaking and showing faces.
The deciduous trees,
while browning the horizon,
allow more light to the ground
and the blue and the white
of the partly cloudy sky
can be seen
homoeopathically
at each step.
But there is a log following the path.
It must be some time since it was brought down:
moss-green has already devoured the brown of the bark,
forming an embossed and thick texture,
where the sun settles quietly.
The steps lead to the lake.
The lake is a place of leisure,
of feeding on food and air.
It is a time to see people passing,
old people, very old,
young people, very young
together.
Not always in couples.
The vegetation is similar,
but the lake changes the light
specularly,
spectacularly
There is life in the air.
The branches show their nests
leaflessly.
Life flies over the lake.
Life flies over the trail.
Life flies over the self.
The way is not only made of curves.
The rocky wall escorts the path
and an eager wire follows in a straight line
grasping onto spread-out, tired posts.
The green opens itself for the passage of life.
The city exists,
despite the countryside.
Its place is over there.
How to get there?
How to come back?
Wanting to come back.
Wanting to stay.
Wanting to go around.
The crossroad is empress.
The decision is necessary.
The city is close by.