Tuesday, 25 January 2011
The sky stood on the roof and spat.
A haze of rain and seagull song at the window. I don't think the ocean would be visible from the high point at the end of the street today. It seems, rather, like a day for a walk with a seal, up river from the sea, the line where the water stops blurred by the wet air. Or maybe for strolling in the still-cobbled parts of town, rivers of rain under the eaves of the granite buildings.
First though, copper plates, acid baths, inky hands and radio dramas. And tonight, Doric language poetry. I can't believe that January has almost finished creaking past us, all wrapped up in the longest, darkest nights, and the brightest, shortest days. I am wondering if, in Scotland, February sometimes wears flowers in her hair.