Becoming Persephone.

A dull blanket of damp cloud descended on the Shire today, trapping the sub-zero air and depressing the view beyond about 400 yards. No sight of the creepy copse in Church Lane, no sight of the view beyond the river to the Weaver Hills, no sight of the Lady B’s erstwhile abode across the fields. All hidden somewhere in the deep, depressing maw of the frigid fog.

I wore my top-of-the-range mountaineering gloves when I went for a walk this morning, and my fingers were still becoming uncomfortably cold by the time I got back.

And there was no sun in the middle of the day as there has been for the last four days of clear, cold weather, so the brickwork on the south wall of my house was not treated to the slight injection of warmth which even the winter sun normally gives it. In consequence, the cold house has become colder today. My fingers are cold as I type this (as are my legs, my feet, and my nose.)

I’ve been trying to remember when my intolerance of winter cold began. As far as I recall it was when I moved into this house 17½ years ago, and was brought on no doubt by the inadequate heating, the 100-year-old structure, and the pernicious physical timidity consequent upon advancing years. And now, every autumn, I feel a sense of dread as winter approaches, and it’s becoming stronger as each year passes. I’ve said on this blog before that when it’s my turn to leave this earth I would like it to be in September. One day, maybe.

But in a mere three weeks the sun will start to rise again. And in a mere three months the early flowers will bring the colour back to the garden, the field margins, and the woodland floor. And two months after that the world will be white with May and the sound of trumpets will welcome the burgeoning life of summer. For six months, maybe.