7th of February
I wake up to snow. They say it’s coming, it’s in the forecast, but you can’t always believe what you’re told. It has come at the right time though. It always makes me feel better, calmer. It’s just so beautiful - the whiteness, the pureness, the way it falls. It makes it feel like everything can start again. Of course I have to go out in it, to walk over it and through it, take it all in. Last time, not long ago when there was much more of it, it was like a dream. There is still a swathe of blue sky so it is nice outside, quiet. The snow makes the sky clearer, brighter. I see the blue in the shadows of the snow, in the grooves of footprints. It’s almost purple today, the colour of a bruise. We were always told to add blue when we drew snow. I go along the river, to the very end of the path and up the steps for the first time in a while, past the rusted iron bridge and the gorse that has skewered the snow on its spikes. When I’m at the top I look back and can see the way the clou
