Curry Rivel December 13th

Minus temperatures outside and the finest dusting of snow in the garden, on the walls and my newly made log pile. When I look at the sky it reminds me of Ronnie Blythe’s line ‘the clouds are full of it.’ It’s got that dirty grey colour to it while the sun is a pale presence struggling to push through.

It’s very still.

Blackbirds fuss about on walls their heads and tails twitching. Great bursts of mistletoe are in the trees. I need to find a bundle to take back to mum for Christmas. I used to get it from the apple orchard where the parasitic plant seems to like apple trees. Perhaps that’s why it’s so much more prolific in Somerset than in Suffolk. Yet, there wasn’t enough last year and it needs to have enough berries and leaves that aren’t too yellow. In Scandinavia in ancient times even enemies had to greet each other underneath it. It was considered a symbol of fertility.

The Hawkins brothers are coming to empty the barn today of some of the stuff that’s been in there for years. A fridge, a bed, an armchair. Much of it is left over from when I moved out after breaking off my engagement eight years ago. Where does the time go?

I say hello to a woman with a black and white lurcher and a handful of evergreen that looks like it might be for a wreath. She was the same person who came to the door asking for someone called Robin two weeks ago. I remember then she also had her hands full of green leaves like a Mayday reveller of old and the same dog waiting patiently beside her.

To the south the greens of the fields are muted and Burrow hill is grey and hazy. The darkness of the solitary sycamore that stands atop it only just visible.

A thin column of smoke is dribbling into the sky. Christmas is less than two weeks away. And I’m not quite feeling it yet.