Darkening towards winter

My, it is dim down here, the days darkening towards winter, the sky hugging its grey close, infiltrating the air. The grey is a colour, is a sound – the sound of birds, this one and that one trilling, and further off a cawing. It is still, it feels womblike, I feel womblike wrapped in my scarf and coat. New songs from other birds complete the eggshell around. Are the plants awake? Is this light enough to fire their green cells and start to work for the day? They’re probably lingering over breakfast.

The spicyness of the leaves that have started to gather at my feet gives the air a warm edge - hawthorn and oak in a tossed salad of browns and yellows and fading greens. Still dry, it has been dry for a few days now. Beyond where I sit, beyond the rose trellis and the swings, the pampas grass is extraordinary. New fronds feather the air, white candyfloss on sticks, an American Indian headdress of fur and feathers. Watch out for the leaves though, they cut as you touch.

Here I am, me and God and the dog, sitting on all my yesterdays, waiting for the new day, holding it huge and empty like a ball, a ball that will get filled so quickly, so easily. Let us make our mark, let us find our place, let us choose the better way. Let us smile, let us enjoy this feast of being alive, this rare, brief gift.