Walking home.
Not the sky this time, though that remained the same shade of featureless grey as the last two nights, but the light. It wasn't quite twilight, but more that even rare time that precedes twilight. Walking through Churchill Square shopping centre, the North Laine, down Western road, there was something about it all that was unmistakably autumnal. As I said, it was the light itself that seemed to be suffused with autumn, and there was a whiteness to the light, despite the fact that it had begun to get dark.
Southside again. I remember this white light from Southside, the pale air that rushed with browning leaves as we waited for the streetlights to come on, something occult about it all, that time that precedes twilight, the tension of waiting for the street lights to come on, breathing in the air of Abbey Crescent and Easter Road, and all those playgrounds and alleyways, and childhood spaces hanging heavy over it all.
I might be expecting spring time tomorrow night, but when a pattern is recognized, it stops becoming so, and usually becomes something else instead.
We'll see I suppose, but I'll probably forget to notice.
