Venus transverses the Sun, paddles a jet coracle over an ocean of golden fire. She appears a lesser goddess, pushing across the fulsome diameter, and a brave goddess, venturing over pluming flames. This is the view from above the clouds of Cornwall this morning:
As we rumble from sleep to bicycle ride, wakeful rain rushes to us, excitable, invigorated, as though it has been witness to the planet’s rare transit, precipitates the news. Work traffic streams by, a river of routine. The supermarket car park is filling up, makes a flotilla of car roofs beneath the path. Pedals spin, wheels whir, stirs up a smile.
I am not supposed to be riding a bike on the pavement but the lorries are colossal and no people are close by. They are all at a distance, looking smaller than they are. Here is one, negotiating an overloaded trolley towards the boot of her car. She is barely the size of my thumb, tacking, determined, over wet tarmac, under the cloud: a blaze of sunlight in a puddle at her feet.