Cold Sunday morning

It’s really very cold here. For England. We are lucky: last year double glazing throughout. Still, with the heat on, it’s chilly. 

Snow coming, weather people say. 

In town, homeless people of all ages sit on layers of cardboard. It’s just unspeakable, really. We are ashamed, but do little. Thoughts which have a regular rhythm in my life — I must go and do something about all this — occur with more frequency now. Lately, most days. And before that, most weeks.

Writing exists for me and is possible no matter what. It doesn’t need trappings.

I love teaching. But there are other things that need doing.

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In this brittle morning, Schubert popped through the cat flap with a tiny, tiny wren. We flung the cat into the bathroom, and while he scrabbled and scrabbled at the door, we shooed the little bird out. At one point it flew into me, the gentlest bump, before veering outside.

(Photo by Steve Round, Cheshire, UK)

 

Hours later Schubert is still looking for it, roaming about. It’s the right decision, to protect what we can. But it’s not an entirely simple one.

Next few days

I’m away writing. This is a good thing. No computer. (Probably) even better. Notice my shaking hands.

However. I’m resolved. And relieved to be getting my head down with the new novel (by which I was ambushed two weeks ago). And some more poems. And some of the memoir.

It’s cold where I’m going, and maybe not even much sun. The heat will have been off since October.

And yet. The views are spectacular. I know them and love them well.

Til then.