Another overcast Sunday afternoon, with the sky the colour of dissolved aspirin and I’m counting the snowdrops in the garden from my bay window. Eight, and one stunted-looking one. I’d thought about giving them names, but will only be sad when they inevitably shrivel up and wilt.
There are a number of light, impermanent things occurring today – along with the snowdrops, the daylight will fade in about three hours time; the honey and sunflower bread baking in the kitchen, will undoubtedly disappear before the end of the day; my cat’s attention span as he focuses with killer instinct on the garden birds flitting about in the drizzle, and then becomes more concerned with cleaning his tail.
It’s the nature of things, I suppose, and it’s hard not to imbue the scene with a sense of melancholy, but all things fade, and then new things come along and replace them. Ho Hum. And after I’ve tapped out this mini-improvisation on the impermanence of life and I have to concentrate on critiquing a friend’s short story and then revise ‘Great Junction Street‘ for the final time and begin the investigation where to submit a grim urban horror story full of coarse Edinburgh dialect.