A Sea for Drowning Gods in

Watching the snow from the call centre window. A few flurries in the morning quickly ramping up to blizzardy gusts. Oh the sea, the sea is wild and deadly. Polar tides, arctic water. A sea for drowning gods in, and the sky is the grey of a childhood-forever, an always without horizon or end.
Catch the bus back with Genevieve. Watch the snow outside the window. Bright lamp streets brighter with the snow, that strange white-light. Step off the bus, and yes, the taste of snow, brings me back always to some unspecified past.
Open my window to the labyrinth of roofs and gardens, changed under the ghost-white. A sobriety out there, and I taste the air, that sharp cold, and I will soon be out in it again. bus-ride to the Prestonville, for evening ales and that walk home through that air that may have witnessed the death of gods.