The year seems determined to depart in a rail of rain and gusts. The night is fractured by the crashing sounds of unknown objects, untethered and unaccounted for. There is an angry howling around the eaves, but the house stands firm.
not by the hair on my chinny chin chin
The pale dawn reveals a community of resigned routines, a northern expectancy of more to follow, raised on a staple of storm and flood
a good day for ducks
to fly a kite
There is a woman bearing a ‘can you believe this’ grin, a hand placed protectively upon her scarf-covered head, even though it is knotted tightly beneath her set chin.
The kids have given up on snow, blinking back stung tears in the wind, laughing at the firm hand on their chests, pummelling and pushing, tempering their flight.
Throughout the town there is a weary shuffle towards the end. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.
Still we batten down.