Midwinter Days

There is no colour in these days.
The sea is flat and barely seems to move.
A cold grey rhythm.

I slept this afternoon, after work, and when I woke, in the last of twilight, the odd shape of the street light on my wall seemed an eye. Some sentinel sent to watch me. A watchman for the night; I am here again, and in these winter days I will not sleep for long.

The dark is full of foreboding.
4:37pm and it is night-time in Brighton.
If this was summer, night would be five hours away.