The Road is Lined with Premonitions

Drifted back into an old country.
The road was lined with premonitions, and the sky had begun to take on a once familiar tilt. The sound of the cars outside the window sound as they might have done years ago, and the coolness of the spring air makes me think of strawberry-yoghurt heavy drowsiness. I hear birds but the sunlight is too pale, too yellow, and the rumours of footsteps in hallways disturb me.
This is an old country. When you return to countries you once knew, it is hard to believe you ever left.
I imagine a fragment of myself on the pebbles of the beach, left from years ago, drinking coffees and smoking roll-ups. Lost in sea-air and the untranslatable dramas of seagulls. When I walk the Old Shoreham Road on one of my late evening walks I imagine that thinner, paler version of me walking just ahead of me - or perhaps just behind me. Rumours following rumour. An urban legend in the darkness with a familiar - half- familiar face. The topography of this place becomes heavy, sunk through with the cold air, and the snow they say will come. Newspaper warnings. Extreme weather alarm.
Of one sort or another.
As I said, the road was lined with premonitions.