Posted on

anticipation

It happens every morning when I open the front door to collect the milk from the step. The shock of cold air. The absolute freshness. The silver promise that heralds each coming winter. People tend to have favourite seasons, but for me I am drawn most to the liminal periods between the seasons. It is in these borders that, for some reason, one feels unaccountably immortal – or, more accurately, a part of immortality.

Leave a Reply