Thursday, 17 November 2016

Good Morning Winter

It's cold out here,
Beneath the grey stormy clouds,
Hanging in the sky like a thick foggy fungus,
While the rain patters lightly,
Upon the concrete floor around me,
Droplets slipping sliding down the sides of grey mountainous buildings,
And in the distance bare topped hills brave the worst of the weather,
And trees wave the tips of their branches above the faraway rooftops like tiny dancing stick insects,
But the sky there is grey too,
Grey and dull and dark,
Like lingering damp on a ceiling,
Growing and spreading and darkening with each day that passes,
Winter is on its way,
Cold and dark and wet,
Not like the snowy 'scapes infused in our brains as children,
All white fields and red breasted robins singing in the snow laden boughs,
While the full moon above shines down from a clear star strewn sky,
Winter here is dark and chill,
Full of cold drizzling raindrops oozing from the ever dark sky,
And winds that howl and tear and rip,
Pulling at your clothes and your hair and your sanity,
It's a damp that swells and clings to your boots and seeps into your socks,
Invading the privacy of your body and soaking into your bones so your no longer you but winter instead,
You can smell it in the air,
It's a soft wet smell,
Like wet dog except its heavier and hangs in the air like a thick permeating smoke,
Pushing its way into your mouth and up your nose and down your throat,
It's wet England,
It's the smell of damp and mould and mushed up leaves and earth all rolled in together and rotting in a barren landscape full of naked twisted trees whose gnarled branches stretch into the ever grey sky like desperate fingertips reaching for a salvation that never comes,
Good morning winter,
It's good to see you again this year,
Perhaps tomorrow will bring the crisp bright sunlight that glitters across the frosty fields,
Sparkling off the frozen mud and iced over puddles that line our sweet country,
Perhaps tomorrow will bring the sharp sweet stillness of the clean winter air,
The light blue streaks that break the grey monotony of the dirty skies,
And the miniature icicles that cling to the slim blades of grass bending in the fields like elegant dancers,
Perhaps even if it doesn't it may still be beautiful,
In a damp, grey, English kind of way.

Rach x

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