Winter winds, layers and prosecco nights...

I miss golden summer evenings like someone drowning would remember the sweet taste of the air. It seems forever since I felt the warm sun on my skin; but this primitive longing is nothing new to me. This time last year I drew the same long heavy breaths, after six months of icy winds that ravished my skin and made my knuckles white. The cold has a way of getting under my skin and seeping slowly into my mind: Once christmas has passed, and frosted windowpanes lose their soft hum of candlelight, I hear darkness beckon. Each new year is a gift, and next I'll be prepared (with a week away in warmer waters). 

I can't remember a time when I didn't need to wear a vest under a jumper under a coat just to barrier the cold, I welcome warmer days with open arms. For now, I dream of river-side crusted bread and wine. Hazy camping-friendly evenings driving under stars and exploring streams. Wooden-heeled sandals and soft, wool-blend maxi dresses with no jacket, or hat, or umbrella. I dream of blueberry pancake saturdays and poached egg sunday mornings. Prossecco thursday night's serving lemon and garlic linguine in an open garden by wood-burner light. I dream of an office spaced study, with a printer and filing rack, ticking off coursework and published stories. 

Tuesday's spent underwater, length after length of the same long breaths. Almost unbearable heat from the sauna, then water so cold that it burns my face. Tired from the day we slump with exhaustion into silver cotton and wrap ourselves in fur. 

Summer afternoons in golden glory we drag plants too heavy for our arms into open spaces - urge rosemary and mint to grow abundantly. We waste evenings in white wine hazes playing Simon and Garfunkle's Cecilia on repeat until the sun dips behind the house and we are - again - in night.

Images sourced here


Flickr Photostream

Twitter Updates

Meet The Author