NTO the November wood, the low mist seeping in from a Victorian graveyard. And it is cold, the sort of cold that enters the marrow of the bone and the core of the soul. Ahead in the ash tree, a roosting pigeon is puffed into a ball and birch trees are already studded by stars. Overhead in the late evening sky, a single jet aeroplane, a flaming red arrow, heading to a place I will never know and likely never visit. The gale last week—and gales and November go together like April and ‘’—ripped the leaves off almost everything arboreal except the
Show me the way to go home
Nov 30, 2022
4 minutes
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