I was sat in my favourite coffee shop, my book finished. I had already made a mental note of my next one. Could see the shelf it resided on at home, the volume nudging its way forward to prominence.
There was only a handful of people here in the waning light, a litany of indistinguishable murmurs in a fade-out of Evensong.
I was watching the rain, coming in at an acute angle, as the shadows lengthened despite the town centre lights flickering into life. This cross-over time was occurring later than the last time I was here. Night was bleeding in.
Often I make a casual case for a move further north, envisage a settling down among complicit folk. But could I really do it? This town outside was my town, my roots deep and tangled. There were people passing, hunched over against the winter rain, people I have known since a younger sun shone upon their face.
I could close my eyes and still find my way around this town, imaginatively. Every short cut and ginnel. See the ghosts still anchored to place.
These ghosts traverse, still, their long trodden paths.
My thoughts turned to how late was the day, and how soon the seasons expire.