Spring is officially here, but it’s being a bit slow to take off its coat this year. It hovers at the door like a nervous visitor, not quite sure whether to come in properly or go before anyone notices it. While it makes up its mind, the nights stay bright but chill, and thick, white frosts cover the ground each morning. The local stray cat huddles in various doorways and under deckings for warmth, its coat muddied and bedraggled. My toes curl when removed from the bedcovers, wincing at the chill air without.
Sometimes I dream of summer, hot and dry; long golden evenings and short moonlit nights; of skin exposed to air rather than covered up under multiple layers of fabrics; of all-pervading, penetrating warmth. Reality often fails to deliver. There is rain and cold, a midsummer spent shivering rather than sunbathing. Perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps the heat will return, and the occasional showers be warm and comfortable rather than icy and distressing.
Perhaps.
Sometimes I dream of summer, hot and dry; long golden evenings and short moonlit nights; of skin exposed to air rather than covered up under multiple layers of fabrics; of all-pervading, penetrating warmth. Reality often fails to deliver. There is rain and cold, a midsummer spent shivering rather than sunbathing. Perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps the heat will return, and the occasional showers be warm and comfortable rather than icy and distressing.
Perhaps.
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