i am getting old , i write about the weather

Sat 4th Feb:

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to write. I try not to think about it too much. It’s a way of transferring I think. If I don’t get the words out they clutter up my head and I feel suffocated. So writing is a bit like swimming, it helps me to breathe more freely. And afterwards I am recharged.

Sunday 5th Feb:

Today as I drove to work the sky was paint-water grey and the clouds looked quite swollen. The tops were already covered in snow. The light is an end-of-the-world-dark but threatening brightness. The streets are washed clean, the pavements would shine if the sun came out. The rain falling is trying so hard to be snow. Intermittently among the heavy rain drops, loose fat flakes fall and disappear as soon as they hit the ground. They never quite make it.

Monday 6th Feb:

The tops are well and truly covered now. In thick white snow and the sky is bouldering. There’s a definite line where the moors let into the  fields. The air is cold. Vital. This small town is quiet, as if it is waiting for something. The traffic rumbles through. All those people have a destination I think. There is no other way. They are all going somewhere.

Wednesday 8th Feb:

I walked for miles today. Alongside walls which in my youth I imagined to be made from the marbles of giants. I remembered times long gone when my mother could walk for miles before she became trapped and crippled. I took pictures to remind her of the big skies and clean air. But mainly I just walked. I guess it’s like writing, just quieter.

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