Thursday, 3 November 2011
This Day
This day comes every year, when the leaves lie thin and wet in the gutter, lining the road with shining ochre and ginger, and suddenly it is getting dark at half past three and you drive home from somewhere with your headlights on and the windscreen wipers on intermittent, and you feel something in yourself fold into the dark, something resist it, trying to smell or taste next spring underneath it all.
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2 comments:
It's getting dark at 3.30 for you up there on the Arctic Circle then? That is shivery, though perhaps the Midnight Sun and the Northern Lights go some way for making up for it.
I started looking forward to Christmas a little while ago. Spring seems a kind of fairly tale.
This is such beautiful writing.
And every year it is the same sad shock to the system.
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