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Winter & Pasta


Sky was so heavy with cloud this morning it was tilting. While I was being fed a row of wooden bricks by a chuckling Baby, it must have sorted its self out. Baby hasn’t localised her laugh, it happens all over her body, as does her lunch. We look out of the window at the hazel catkins twitching in the chilled breeze, at the bridal white buds on the blackthorn trees, at the straightened layers of low cloud. Winter has not gone, but stands at spring’s shoulder, overseeing the new season. In the middle of winter we light fires to call back the sun, but in the middle of summer who wishes back the dark? I don’t begrudge winter’s lingering. 
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