Clifton, January 30th
In bed. It’s 7.45 in the morning. It’s a Saturday. These are dream days. It’s silent apart from the low hum of the wind and the rain nonchalantly clicking against the panes. Everyone is indoors. Hidden.
We’ll remember this as a dream time. A surreal time when our movements are limited and we prowled around our own patch like animals in a zoo.
Lying in the dark I feel the warmth of an old feeling of the luxury of bed. Softness. Stillness. And dreams. Real dreams. A child in our family. A girl. Only 2 or 3. Smiling and us recognising her as one of us. Who was she? My brother’s? He and his wife are expecting one. Or mine?
After waking I am still in the dark imagining. So precious to ENJOY being in bed.
The moon appearing slowly, ghostlike from behind a cloud. Then an eye. Clear and open and bright.
Things are starting to stir. Seagulls with their high pitched, urgent squawking somewhere near. For the first time this year. They’ll soon be my neighbours. In April or May a pair will come and nest with one egg nestled between the chimney pots outside the window to the bathroom. We look at each other when I’m having a shower. Last year they arrived early.
A pigeon is cooing and a magpie us in the garden. One car rolls slowly past at the end of the road and a siren wails sadly somewhere on the distance.
Sure, it’ll be busier down in the city proper but still a holding of breath.
I’ve said this before. There’s drama in the silence: the awareness of people’s once presence heightened by their absence.
Like Dad. When I’m at home the silence at night is amplified by his absence. More powerful than any great noise anyone could make.
All Saints Church is ringing 8 times. And now it’s quiet again. The wind is a silent roar and the rain still tocks on the window pane. I will walk later but now I must sleep.