In the garden, pale grasses shudder. A dusting of snow. White crystals fall from the sky, swirling motes that centre him in their vortex. A cold breeze dances through his dressing gown. He turns his face to the sky, his eyes closed feeling the bite on his nose and the tips of his ears.
‘You’ll catch a death.’
Inside: ‘What were you doing?’
‘I just wanted to see it. Feel it.’
‘The snow?’
‘Something.’
Paddy Dobson
8th February 2021