I journey to work under ink blue skies that gently fade to pale grey ; washed out and heavy with the endless fall of rain.
Now is the season of dirty cloud banked like week old snow by the roadside; darkened mornings and leaf mulch underfoot. Of relentless, buffeting winds; and morning mists that soften harsh lines and erase the familiar; blurring the the horizon as if viewed behind saggy net curtains.
As the temperature drops, faces pale and pinch, and numbness seeps to our very souls.....
... and we who dread the slow creeping damp, curl beneath heavy quilts, with soft breathing cats, to dream of warm sun on salt kissed skin.