Thursday, 15 December 2011
The sky touches every last thing.
Only some fat flakes of snow whirled down as two men in their winter hats erected scaffolding on the house across the street. We took our old route down to the sea, looking for evidence of the snow all the while, but there were just some pockets of frost that the sun forgot to chase away from mossy grasses.
Little, glittering shards of the sky flew past and bit us. Small birds came running on their wings, back and forth to the tree at the window, and now the tree is bare of every last rowan berry. Now there is only a thrush that comes and sits on the chimney pots looking down its nose at me through the foggy wet morning window panes.
Towards the sea with coat pockets full of holes and chocolate and the danger of losing things in the lining. We saw another couple, as we slipped between some gravestones and up a hill to a tear in the wire fence. They laid down new flowers, laughed and called to each other as they hurried back and forth to and from their car.
Beyond a rickety wooden weather shelter by the road, the sea floor was swelling up out of the waters, pushing sandy streams down and behind it as it crawled toward the line of cars and cafés. Down toward the harbour, a pod of surfers rose and fell in silhouette.
This month goes creaking on, little tasks get crossed off lists, and there is a lot of hurrying here and there. One whole day baking, another on the phone. Buried on my desk is the old tile I use as a palette, and I am sure that the paints on it must be dried all the way through by now. I feel like, on some still December days, when the normal streets are empty and everyone is in the shops, if no one is looking it should be allowed to float slowly, deafly, up up up away into the cold, quiet blue.