Myself and the neighbours sky watch and throw our wishes for light into every short encounter. From "there's a stretch in the evenings" to "as long as it's bright" we are guilty of the most repetitive weather conversations that can be had. From the top of the hill . . .
As November takes hold, maybe winter begins? The community on the hill and here on the lane are winding down, burrowing in behind closed doors. Close to the window there are white roses budding and flowering, in their own rhythm. Sure they don't seem to know if it's day or night! And in . . .
Does it feel darker inside when it's darker outside? Do you ever wonder why the earth turns away again from the sun, when that's what we crave? Or do you feel the sheer lack of control, of authority of consultation? It just does. No body asks us what we think. The seasons . . .
In Midsummer now brightest green and lush lasting only moments counting every one through one half shut eye land bathed in light still promising so many balmy days ahead . . .
At first it's tentative. One foot in, one foot out. The icy winds don't help. The community has retreated. Keeping their heads down. Winter is steadfast in it's stagnation. Then suddenly all bets are off. We start to re-emerge, stand on corners and chat, bend down and pull a few weeds from the . . .