From My Window.

All memory of summer has gone. The colours have faded, washed away, bleeding into the autumn earth. 

And now, outside my window all is silver and softest grey, the only warmth the dry bronze of the reeds stitched across my view.

Yesterday, a day to stay home, a poorly babe to nurse. We light a fire, and silence drifts around us, with only the scratch of pencil against paper,  the rustle of turning pages. 

And as we sit we watch the mountains recede into a cloud of white haze, a curtain drawn between us.

And then, as though on cue, the sun, to light up the powdered mountain. The mountain called the Sugar Loaf. Now sprinkled with sugar-snow, a little bit of magic to brighten our day.


Snow. And it is still October. And last Halloween they watched the fireworks in their pajamas, unseasonal warmth keeping us out in the dark, holding back the winter.

Just that little bit.