(Hoping to produce some small 15 minute prompt responses to get myself into the habit of daily writing. Barely edited, largely overwritten).

 

  1. Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

Small buds of cotton float down from the sky. The grass is aged; laced with a fine gossamer of white, showing the age of the season. Over the hours, the tiny chinks of ice flutter down and collect. They group together in clusters, forming layers upon layers, stacking up in the grass, on the mud. Freezing over in the chill air, leeching the colour from the snapshot out the window to a black and white still.

The world seems quiet, restful, sombre. Like mourning the sunshine of summer, the warmth of August air and the bounty of Midsummer.

There is still joy in winter – small red clusters of berries, tiny flickering flames against the cold. Brave, tiny birds hopping, flittering from one tree to another, leaving more of a trace of themselves than during the Spring. Minute footprints in the pillows bedding the fields. Their songs are whistles, chirps, hearty songs to warm the soul. They’re a wake-up call to the lifeless soil, the slumbering world, a reminder to wake up in the dawn of spring.

Water in the river still flows, beating against the frost and refusing to be still on it’s course. Never failing to run, endless energy. The flow is undeterred by the blanket of snow, the frost choking it upstream. A tiny trickle, but nonetheless a trickle. It has never ceased, not this year, the year before – not for millenia. The world around might sleep but the river continues to flow.

The sky reflects the earth. Pure white. The landscape is a monochrome freeze-frame. A church bell peals out, clear. The frozen air cracks. A flock of pigeons hustles together, frantically flapping their way to another refuge against weeks of little food and frosty air.

The snow lays for two days. On the morning of the third, the world slits open one lethargic eye, gazing languidly through a settled haze. As though the monochrome has diluted into one mass web of grey.

There underneath the melting snow, a small harbinger. One delicate bud of white silk, hanging it’s head as though still asleep like the rest of the earth, yet poking a head warily, green arms held high in reverence against an open and blank sky.