Cold (533)

by Max Akroyd

Winter sunrise over the pig field

Where I come from, when summer starts slipping into autumn, someone would announce that the weather ‘feels a bit backendish’. Well, this is the unambiguous back end of the year. Each morning the blinds are pulled up to reveal… well nothing, just a blankness. Eventually a low energy strip of light illuminates the horizon. Against the drab landscape the sky is fascinating, but it only has a palette of cool tones to work with. The much craved for warm light is only found in the depths of the wood fire and it magnetises your gaze. 

Today’s mission accomplished was destroying what the last storm hadn’t of a long line of fence. After the rotten old wood was out of the way, and added to the bonfire pile, I could get my strimmer in there and tidy up properly for the first time in years. When I stood back and admired the destruction I’d wrought, I found myself wondering why the fence had ever been there in the first place, it having had no apparent function. Except maybe as a plaything for autumn gales.

This week is a minefield of appointments and other distractions. It’s tempting just to yield to the inevitable and let the pre-Christmas chore-fest win out. But I’m determined to struggle against the tide for another week – although I capitulated a bit by spending an hour cleaning the car. I’ll never get that hour back..!