Not Summer, not Autumn

Grey, drizzly skies. Still too warm, clammy heat clinging to skin. The air is thick and altered. Even the sea seems sluggish.
At the launderette this morning. Sat on the steps smoking cigarettes, watching passers by under umbrellas. Dark-light. October memories.
This is not summer, but not autumn either.
August is pregnant with autumn.

Last day of a phase for me. In years to come, today will seem split by a wide gulf from tomorrow when the new job starts.
Chapter-end, and already, those churchyard walks back from the job centre are seeming a lifetime ago.

A strange summer.
I remember when it started, back in Worcester, along the banks of the Severn. That phone call from Claire.
Sudden redundancy, glee-shock.

Joe down last week, now back to Poland looking for a job. This time last year, the worried weekend before the court case on Monday. Looking for patterns stretched through these years, a tarot card geography.

The sky is thick and wet outside the window. It doesn't feel like summer is dying, but more that autumn is stirring somewhere nearby.