Watching bubbles in the sunlight

It is the most beautiful day.

There come, occasionally, these in this damp little country of ours. Days when the skies are the clearest, brightest blue, a blue that you wish eyes could be. Because if eyes were that clear and bright, they would see with total clarity and honesty.

If there are clouds, they are small, puffs and streaks of pure white, moving with grace and serenity rather than being harried and hustled by harsh winds.

(I heard last night that the definition of "strong breeze" was when it was difficult to keep an umbrella open. I do not like that definition - a breeze should be gentle, smooth, kind....)

I have been sitting outside blowing bubbles. This ageing child still from time to time will buy the tubes of the thick detergent beloved in her real childhood, where you dip your wand in and then gently blow, breeze-like, at the loop slick and dripping with potential bubble. My skill is not great. My bubbles are variable in size and quality. But I love to watch them rushing upwards, gleaming with oil-slick colours, polka-ing and twinkling into the clear blue sky.

Bubbles, variable and fragile. Some drift on, until quite out of sight. Others land and last a little while, quivering in the air. Some rush recklessly, blindly at unsuitable things and - pop. I have never been able to keep a bubble. Bubbles, beautiful, dancing......do not last forever.

Ultimately - people are fragile, just like bubbles.