Monday, 22 November 2010
In a letter, I would send the sound and smell of rain on wood.
Hello to you on a rainy Monday. Over here this morning, the sky is pulling the wooly greyness of her winter blankets across the sky. I am told that there is snow on the mountains already, and soon there will be some in town as well. The small plastic radio babbles on the floor in the corner and our eyes peer at this or that thing in the dimness. I count the shoddy day light hours, never exacting from them all that I plan to. But, I am trying to teach myself not even to notice them at all, that supper is not eaten around nightfall, days of painting can curl themselves around lamplight any time, and a working-day tiredness comes only from work and not absence of sunlit hours.
The clothes horse stands well-dressed and waiting, a lone magpie passes at the window. Assemblies of folklore books gather on the tabletops, on the floor. If the rain stops for a moment I will buy us milk for our tea, and the wind can sweep up from the sea and over the rooftops to push me back up the hill as I walk down it towards home.