Some days I feel as though I have swallowed the sun. The gulls laugh and caper just beyond. Two magpies in a tree sit chattering in their wooden voices, surrounded by the fat buds of arrested spring. There is a funny sort of unattached optimism blowing about on these days of gales and hissing rain. Ravens and hooded crows rush by carrying sticks in their mouths.
It is cold by the window today. My copper plate, the fifth and last plate, is warming itself by the halogen lamp as I type this. The radiator hums, the washing machine clicks away in the other room, and outside men in fluorescent coats are cutting the grass beyond the stone walls for the first time this year and roaring about with their leaf-blowing machines as bare branches sway in the big winds high above them.
Only the gull calls cut through everything.