The year is winding down, and Nature prompts us at this time to turn in, to bed down, to slow. Winter is harsh with its ice and frosts and dark winds, but it is also soft. Soft as wool, as gentle dusk, as candlelit laughter. I’ve been heeding the seasons lessons, and taking a break. My instagram has been filling with images of fairylights, wreaths, wooden ornaments, morning light, but I haven’t sat down to write seriously for a few weeks.
Last night I drove home in twilight, that hour after dusk when night has fallen but the sky hasn’t quite finished it’s inky flood, frayed to glimmer at the point it disappears behind the hill. Between the car lights and the windows, the flashing fairy lights and streetlamps I caught sight of another light; a new moon hung above the horizon, glimpsed at first between rooftops or cradled in skeleton trees. As I left the town, my road climbed, winding up the Downs, upwards towards the laid back crescent. A thin slither of curved light, rocking back on its haunches. Brand new yet older than imagination.
It was a flash of silver fish in a sea of plankton clouds. A scratch of pencil in all my childhood drawings. Goddess smile and battle light. And for a moment, mine alone.