Winter is the time for stars. Then, if you can get away from street lights, on a clear night the sky is ablaze with them.
At this time of year there are not so many. But there is something magical in the faint stars of these pale summer nights. The stars that are there are less bright, flickering softly in the pale sky, gleaming against the afterglow of the late sunset.
Last night with the scents of the day still redolent in the spice of the night, I could see the sickle shape of The Plough, one end of it pointing to the barely discernible North Star, the other end pointing to the soft red glow of Arcturus. I could see, too, the Twins,
Castor and Pollux appearing almost alone among the barely visible faintness of the stars around them.
In the West, moving towards the horizon, the crescent of the Waxing Moon had a yellow-red hue as she followed the Sun behind the hill.
The overall effect was of a canopy of soft lamps in an enchanted enclosure. I was spellbound under a faërie sky.
