It’s 3.30pm, and the solid bank of clouds outside my window is the shade of grey your white t-shirt turns when it has been through too many cold wash cycles. The hedges and trees flail in the grip of gusts and sudden squalls of rain. It’s twilight already. It has the yellowish tinge of an incipient storm, or the apocalypse.
I’ll be living in this compressed twilight world until the end of the month. I hold onto the thought that the solstice is not far off, and every day after that will be a little longer and brighter.
The sun remains, hidden. I wish it would break through more often.