The distant hills are pale grey, pale green. Overexposed. Desaturated.
The chill air holds them back from their humming, buzzing
colours of Spring and Summer.
Nearer, wraiths of heating and washing and factory hover, reluctant,
coiling slowly above the town.
Cold brick entombs the people. They are afraid to wake the
giant Winter.
No snow, as yet. The frost is just the early rash of a
deepening cold; it will melt and then return.
The air is sharp, yet thick and turgid, slowing the breath
and the step.
Leaves are curled and crisp, buds hidden like children in
the attic.
The breath is held. Why give up warmth? Why give way to the
season?
The step is tense. Why slip? Why lose one’s footing?
We are on the edge.
In time we may say. “What happened to Winter? It was mild,
wasn’t it?”
In time we may say. “Do you remember?”
That was when...
That was when...
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