I sit at my desk feeling the dull light from the window envelope me. One of the two windows is slightly ajar; bringing a mild, wintery breeze in the room making the spoon in my cereal cold to my warm mouth. Outside I can see floating golds, yellows, browns and greens – colours which should have withered with the weather. But the evergreens stand firm, encouraging others to hold on to their colours tightly, and unite in defiance of the perpetual winter that seems to permeate the British year. One young maple hides behind the oak – brush-like and bare. I smile at its embarrassment as I pick up my cup of tea. The steam writhes urgently above the liquid, undulating on the metal of my spoon, and then forlornly dissipates into another nothing.
The room has become that little bit too icy, and my mother’s voice tells me I really should pull it to; but the sounds of the dying wood fill me with warmth and purpose. The invisible wind which shows itself slyly in the slow swaying of the trees, gathering a large gust which scatters leaves and frightens birds that begin to think it was a bad idea to winter in this mellow place. Flecks of sky-tears begin to roll down my window and I realise that above the grey is blue, and above that black: I prefer bare to black.