It was an early morning in September this year. I was out on a bike ride in my beautiful town, Härnösand.
It was fairly warm. The air was moist, the effect of a rain the night before. "The wild and windy night / that the rain washed away / has left a pool of tears / crying for the day"... as Macca had it.
The sun had risen. Now it was concealed behind a mountain on my right. And in front of me I had an old regimental barrack, a yellow "kasern" as we say in Sweden, resplendent like a castle with the front catching the sun rays.
On my left a brook ran, rather a lot of water; it had been raining as I said. I was in some area of detached houses, an organized region in the near-city zone, and to have an open brook running there was some quaint eyecatcher I'd say: they hadn't led it through ducts and covered it with soil. No, freshly running water, murmuring in the early morning sun!
In front of me were the barracks, presiding on a small shelf in the hillside, surrounded by emerald green lawns and flanked by maples. And in my mind I transformed it into a watering place, a place to quench your spiritual thirst. And along with some other reflections on the times, it all evolved into this poem. Note the Macca-reference in line #1!
I'm in love with her and I feel fine
living in this Midsummer Century
praying at The Watering Place Of Good Peace
under The New Improved Sun.
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