Premonitions for the White Sky Days

That other side of spring, and here in mid-end winter, I can almost hear them coming.
A chime in the distance, some low resonance, so deep, its almost felt than heard.
Skies white and depthless and infinite, and the days wet and cold and warm, and there have always been chats with friends about armageddon, and those skies darkening (cloud) and the orchard evenings. Blossoms like a haunting over memory. Hills on the edge of all towns, and in Worcester a path by the Severn winds by the side of meadows, and in the water float the possibilities of vanishings and the memories of last-October nights when no-one would come here.
Everything Scottish and Mediterranean.
In the Brighton seas, a yellow haze.
No-one remembers these days to come. They last forever.