Quiet Sunset

On winter days like these I draw the curtains at the front to see if the cars parked outside the flat are iced over.  I draw the curtains at the back to see if the sun is rising above the freezing fog.   The sun climbs the sky, afternoon comes, and I make a decision.  Walk down the hill and through the gate.  Out there the pavements were gritted and moist.  Here the grass is crisp underfoot, the old bins we use for waterbutts are still frozen over and the soil is beginning to crumble nicely under the impact of the frost.  It is cold to the touch, with miniature ice crystals.  No digging then.

Manure: nature's insulating blanket, weed-suppressing, worm-feeding, nutritious manure.  I unlock the shed and heave out the wheelbarrow.  Three or four trips and some light weeding and raking and the time has gone.

I cannot begin to describe a winter technicolour sunset.  I would have to be a painter render the luminescent oranges and reds that fill the sky, a poet to pile up the meteorological metaphor.

But I can tell you what a quiet sunset feels like, as the birds fall silent. The earth turns.  By degrees, the invisible sun begins its descent behind the clouds.  You feel the motion.  A light wind springs up, a small chill wind and it is time to turn for home.