I don’t know if it were a dream or yesterday, but it was 6pm and dark as the night. I thought winter were coming and had arrived early. I could feel the chill of it in my bones.
Today is one of those days where the sunlight spattles through the trees, carving their leaves onto the earth, which glows like a luminous body. The sun is very low and very cold, because everything it has is light.
I find myself imagining I am in Essex. These are Halsteadean days. I can see the frost on my coat and woollen mittens, my breath before my lips, that cold, continuous light from the white encrusted ground and the crunching sound made by slow, careful steps in double-socked boots. Winter is here.
Winter is here, and it is only September. Summer doesn’t end until the 22nd or the 23rd and the skies are a blue idyll rumbled by a few lazy clouds. There is almost no wind.
Far away, I can see a low-lying stratus cloud, so thin it has almost no colour, just a greyish overcoat and invisible red aura. I wonder whether it is coming my way or heading away from me. I wonder whether I should close my eyes. Whether I shall remember this day tomorrow. Or in one of my tomorrows.