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.

Chaos indicators

 The wind shooshes, with an occasional moan; recruits rain to tippy-tap the panes. I stand and watch leaves circulate the garden. Above these dripping canopies, village jackdaws tumble, fight to smooth the chaos with their wings, reflect the dances of the leaves. Focussing between, fine drops swirl and dance like wind-tunnel smoke, like extinguished fireflies in rapture.

The old ways

 On impulse, an unfamiliar word takes me from lap-top to office to consult the Collin's. It's an old usage, not one I trust to the Internet where spellings get casually Americanised. The much thumbed volume buzzes as I pick a point to crack it; I strike five pages past my word. A familiar book, a friend in my hands; present from a near forgotten aunt who had an eye, one anniversary, for what I needed, rather than what I wanted. I take the opportunity of the break to freshen tea, watching down the garden, smelling her carpet, warmed by a sun fifty years younger.

Up my nose

My evening of food and online gambling promotions was interrupted last night by an advert for scent; bloody Christmas is coming. First though we have to climb over the festering corpse of "present or pathogen" evening.

Third season blues, and whites, and reds, yellows, orange...

 I force myself still.

Spin slowly, watching clouds form,

To the trill of birds.