Evening Sun

Is there anything better than sun?  Not the sun, mind, but sun, singular.  Sun.  As in getting, taking, catching.  Today was sunny in London.  Fully and completely sunny.  22 Celsius.  That is almost miraculous - a barbecue Spring moment of extreme grace.  I sat out in both the back and front of my flat, following sun.  I read some Hazlitt, on Familiar Style, the new Adrienne Rich, some Jessie L. Weston (she has a marvellous style!), and ended with some April poems from David Lehman's delightful The Evening Sun.  I also read some newspapers, and other books, one on rhetoric, but leave that for another day.  I sometimes wore my UEA ballcap - but mostly I am red-faced for the seeking of the very highest good: sun.
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