Gods and Eastenders

Pockets of summer in the late winter air; blossoms and the echoes - premonitions - of deep spring evenings, breathe in, and the air tastes of flowers and rivers, dark water and a certain tilt of horizons under not-quite-dark skies.
Gods are violet, and turn their myths into a silence.
I finish the crossword in the Independent newspaper by midday. I think I was justified in using the internet to look up the answer to 'Norfolk fishing port'. I would never have guessed it was Great Yarmouth. I wasn't even really sure where Norfolk was really. Looking on Googlemaps, I see it was in that part of the country I've never gone to, lost fragment of Britain on the right-hand side.
The day slipped by like mercury, lost that silver snake somewhere. Lost like the east in the drains of the day.
Now to make the evening go by slowly. Maybe I'll ask those violet gods to slow everything down... or just watch Eastenders, which makes every second seem an eternity anyway.