A Collection Of Observations

August


Overhead the clouds prepare for a monumental downpour.

I watch from inside as heavy rain thrashes around in the brutal winds,

The previous day's fitful showers seeming meek by comparison.

Before long, roars of thunder can be heard.

Sporadic flickers of light stir the darkened sky,

Shadows quickly ebbing away before bouncing back with relish.

It's raw, it's ruthless.

It's invigorating.



The sky is a deep azure blue, waves collide and reside.

I dig my toes under the warm, sunlit surface into the freezing sand that rests beneath,

Breathe in the salty air,

And drink in the sight of the serene sea.



September


Wednesday dawns clear skied and unpredictable.

The air is cool and sharp, but peaceful.

I take my time, savouring the stillness.

It's teeming down only hours later.



On a Saturday, I listen to the faint slaps of droplets dotting my window,

Sinking into bitter glass.

A sprinkle of water.

Quiet and unassuming.



October


I'm in the forest today, tossing pebbles into the river,

Watching the ripple effect.

The tall trees and amber leaves,

I'm struck by the beauty.

The soil crumbles between my fingertips.



Mist engulfs the hills.

There's very little to see.

It leaves me on edge, uneasiness tearing through my spine the longer I gaze out into obscurity.

The murky outlines are ominous.

Yet incredibly intriguing.

I dab and dot and smudge, sloppy flicks of black and white,

It's not a pretty picture.



November


Dark clouds hang heavy above me.

The first splotch of rain on my forehead is only to be expected.

The drizzle is light at the onset so I ignore it, peering into shallow puddles.

Water pools over green, fields are flooded.

Streams flow freely.

The silence cuts.

My walk is brief and it pelts down remorselessly soon after.



The ground is still damp from the day before.

Raindrops cling to limp strands of grass, branches appear on the brink of collapse,

Caving in, drooping down, darkened wood saturated as if to the core.

Water drips from a woeful canopy.

It feels like defeat - distant and unforgiving.



December


My scarf whips around in the wind, soft threads batting my eyes in a harried frenzy.

Trees knock against each other and I shove my hands in my pockets.

Along the road, the grass trembles.

There's a rusted fence with clumps of wool pinned to the wire and too many sheep to count,

All raising their heads to stare in unison.

I'm irritated, keeping tally of all the empty plastic bottles and flattened take-away packaging,

Blemishing the scenic route.

There's a lot of it.



The night's ice is softened by the peachy afterglow of sunrise.

Sunlight soaks the countryside, radiant and fresh,

As I step outside, what remains of the snow slick and slurring under my heel.

The crisp air freezes my lungs, the dry cold nips my ears,

I shiver, I sniff, I rub my hands together.