Light spilling as if through a robust multi-faceted diamond up up from the racetrack reach of Hackney Marshes; the colour of dusky persimmons - & then some in London in a window display -

Umbria: end of season colours raking olives; a place retreating into itself; the cry of a green woodpecker and the smell of pine smoke; persimmon fruit (again!) heavy fallen on theit low bushes, carcasses burst open now to spread seed and feed the sparrows; everywhere you look there are the sombre browns and mute greys of Autumn broken here and there by the eclipsing golden shimmer of some variety of tree that I don't know but writes itself large in the conciousness of the day, everywhere, like beacons brooding in the shade -

In the cemetary - All Souls Day, Day Of The Dead - people have come from far and wide to the solid state of the lined tombs and the dark cypress walls - a Bernard Hermann chord 'Clare de Lune' gently reverberates back and forth between them from the prophetic pathway to the far inclement wall and to where, on the right hand side, a large aviary stands, netted to stop the birds within from ever getting away. A raucous cacophany of diverse song matches the Hermann score: high-pitched squeaks and trills; fleeting, throaty utterances. Yet all the birds remain unseen. They are as ghostly as the lives celebrated within the sacred boundary -

Here we can see Carnevale and Pablo gauging the grief of others against their own; experientially at least. A scarf each to keep their throats warm. Mentally operating on the clues to either one of the deaths they shall both consider over and over again. Aware of the inordinate sanctuary of grief and the literal insanity they are feeling. Sharing that. In similar latitudes though far apart, the biting statement of coming winter and the ironically loquacious colours of it are both a mirror to the living and an essence of those gone: limbo indicators, extraordinary in sunlight, fervidly grim when overcast -

I'm thinking only of that diamond -

Castiglione del Lago, Italy