White Noise

Heedless of a forecast that offered, if not permission, then at least excuse, frozen flakes hang embarrassed in the air, like celestial dandruff. They come in negligable numbers; not yet an invasion, but an expeditionary force, scouts and spies sent out to discover the potential warmth of any reception. The wind whips the flakes and specks in all trajectories from down to up, making the mean descent sideways, but without much resolve. Ridge-tiles, trees and telegraph wires are outlined by a uniform grey. Brighter than at mid-winter; not yet threatening worse to come. Unreadable, like a blank stare

Hither and thither

In the name of exercise, I've probably walked thirty miles this week, sliding, splashing and clattering though the woods, scattering the wildlife as I go.

It would be difficult, although I've had plenty of practise now, to identify the species of the retreating birds and mammals; all the identification guides have mugshots, not the more frequently observed tails. An audio guide to alarm calls would be a welcome addition.

Over a year, I have enjoyed the first lockdown serenity of closed car parks and untrafficked roads, the rare summer visitors who had battled, or possibly broken, travel restrictions to stop by and gawp, the sudden wetness of the autumn, after a parched summer.

I've dived out of the door at the sight of a yellow sun, to be dampened by the next cloud; emerged like a reluctant butterfly into full overcasts, to be shocked by a slanting ray.

But, brighter still, I've walked these miles too, to be surprised by the full unfeigned smile of a stranger, well met, out in the tranquillity and beauty.

Behind our masks, we have been practising these smiles; supplanting those polite, mouthed grimaces that used to suffice in places of commerce and the meeting of strangers. We've learned to project warmth with our eyes, and are better for it.

Overthinking it

A difficult life;

Awkward; I can't stop thinking.

<stop>. Pause for effect.

cryptical autumn

Thrushes catch my eye, and the starlings star in their own speckle-show. Pecking and probing, collared with grass; on a green sea, afloat with lost apple leaves.

I reach for my slippers

 ... and a squall came. Lancing rain like splayed fiber-optic bundles dance to the moan of the wind and the trees seem to wrap themselves with their boughs. Shrubs self flagellate and show their secret under-leaves while dripping window panes instead run in carunculated sheets. Gutter rivulettes swell and the private noises of the house are played in a noisy percussion of splashing and rattling.

Went to see the sea

Went to see the sea.
Watched the orange sun sink till it was paint on floating shards;
the moon rise over the island, till I was cold.
Saw the fireflies lit on silhouetted shores.
Waited until the arc of sky above was drained of all its blue;
the candyfloss clouds dimmed past dusty cotton wool.
Came home.

olfactory codepoint

After thirty years in a cupboard, Angostura Bitters smells exactly the way the Soda Syphon Cola refill smelled forty five years ago.