Each leaf which fell after the sleet has sheltered a frozen mirror. Scuffed aside the secret is revealed of their cold embrace, but the short slant light of day cannot make it melt.
People from the past drift through my dreams and drop into my e-mail in-box. These I can ignore, but when they ring on the phone interaction is required. I’m talking six to sixteen years past. My number is unlisted, but despite this someone I’ve never met rings it, on the advice of someone I last saw eight years ago, and asks for advice about a forthcoming job interview. Surreal. The positive is the surprising equanimity with which I deal with these unasked-for interruptions.
The unmistakable scream of a swift from the ice-blue sky has me screwing up my eyes against the red-pink of the huge winter setting sun, searching in astonishment for a seriously displaced summer visitor. A starling stares back down from a television aerial silent for a few seconds before repeating its borrowed screech.
Last night I dreamed of buying clothes. A snappy little tailored jacket, to be exact, and a cunningly constructed skirt. This is the first time for years that my attention, conscious or unconscious, to garments has gone much beyond whether they are sufficiently warm and sufficiently clean to be either useful or respectable. Unfortunately my budget for clothes is zero, but luckily I already have considerably more than necessary and have a long neglected wardrobe to explore.
Mice are gone, lice are back.