One of my favourite poem openings (from John Donne’s Nocturnall upon S. Lucies Day), its sonorous tone and that last long syllable just right for the gloom of the winter solstice, and particularly apposite for a Hallbankgate morning, which dawned with some hope but by ten had darkened to a glower, rain whipped in spiteful squalls horizontally across the battered garden. Unfair of me to paint it so black – the sun did appear, briefly, later – and churlish, too, since it welcomed me so warmly and felt – yes, in a way like home. Which is where there are those you care about, Jan suggested; maybe, though I think what makes the difference is if they care back. And I guess you can have more than one – home, that is.
Now I find that there’s too much weather everywhere. I’m stuck on a stationary train somewhere near Rugby: apparently a tree branch has blocked the line and two ‘services’ out of London have driven into it. And it’s been dark for hours of course, Lucy’s seven hours’ unmasking long over, and I should be home before midnight. My preparations for Christmas are already running woefully late, though – will I ever get there in time?