It's cold. And silly me is sat outside.
I'm writing outside today, with my notebook perched on crossed legs and my pen soon to run dry because I'm hoping to write about the sky and what it may hold.
12℃ isn't too cold, but I feel my body is still acclimatised to the warmth of a summer spent in Italy.
I yearn for it.
To do it all over again.
Longer days and warmer nights.
Anonymity when I needed it.
An array of wine just waiting to be picked from the shelves before my eyes.
The blue sky that roofs my troubled head speaks otherwise. It shines a soft turquoise, reminding me that winter beckons.
There are ripe, dark clouds balancing above. Fiercely mastering the tango between one another.
Prompt and ready to erupt.
They howl the warning of a storm. On land. Over sea. And in my mind.
I sense there's difficulty to come.
As the storm roars around me calmness will be key.
And patience is a necessity. Patience that runs through my veins can't be left short.
When the evening arrives, I must remember that it is the devil's hour. And he will reek havoc.
I have to wait until morning to reveal myself again. I will wait until morning to observe and participate amongst the sky once more.
And so it will start again.
Watching and waiting, with patience, as the sky dances around me.