Descending into winter

The mist is low this morning; a heavy, cold, dampness that wants to sink into my bones. It is silent, with only the occasional brave bird somewhere out in the greyness.

Late autumn colours

This time last year I was getting ready to return to South Africa; now it is five and a half months since my mother died. I need to talk to her this morning. And I long to be with my friend BER. I am suddenly overcome with fear that I will never see him again in this life – one day there will be a phonecall, or worse still an email telling me he has gone, and I will only have the sound of his voice in my head.

The garden falling asleep

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