Walking through shadows which weren’t there in the summer.
Contrasting the graphic quality of skeletal trees with the
solid and softer attributes of their summer-clad selves.
Marvelling at how quickly a hot beverage loses its capacity
to comfort.
Feeling anxious for the birds when the dusk is deepening and
the temperature palpably falling.
Sniffing the air for the scent of snow on a changing wind.
Listening to the hiss of countless car tyres turning anonymously through the frigid
dampness of a monochrome urban landscape.
This is the view from an office where I worked for nine
years. One afternoon in July I walked out and was never seen in the vicinity again.
It earned me the nickname ‘Lord Lucan’ among my erstwhile colleagues. It
shouldn’t; walking out unexpectedly and never going back has always been something
of a habit of mine. My mother sometimes asked me where I got my gypsy blood
from. I’ve no idea, but the gypsy in my blood has fallen cold and anaemic now.
Only the wildwood with its singular and sometimes mysterious sounds stirs the
memory of its former restlessness.
Several times this week there have been mysterious sounds outside my office window after dark. It happened twice tonight. It being Halloween today, they reminded me to put a cake and glass of scotch out in the garden, just in case.
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