A fire crackles and its flames shimmer twice in the broken glass hanging loose in the frames. Outside the night is blue and the city pale with snow. The wind whistles gently as it passes through empty buildings. The snow makes a delicate tinkly as it drifts to earth. A man sits scratching away at an old diary. Posterity. For who? The man doesn’t know who’ll read the story of us. The wind in the mountains. The waves in the deep ocean. The light of the stars.
Paddy Dobson
18th November 2021