Songs of Silent Chimneys

The first of the shifted British Summer Time evenings. Nearly 5:00pm and it's as light as the mid-afternoon. We've only put the clocks forward an hour, but it always seem to stretch out the day so much longer. A paradox, as we've lost an hour today. The whole chrono-fusion pleases me - are we earlier - later? Not so much where we are but when we are? The first Sunday always feels timeless, like some memory, some dream, rather than the present moment.
Sat on my sofa in my room. Curtains wide open to the late afternoon. It is still bitterly cold (an earlier walk to the shops to get some gas did not encourage a further constitutional) and though there is no snow, it feels like there should be snow. To balance out this wintry air, there is the sound of a springtime bird singing, some delicate lament against the thuggish squall of the seagulls who themselves are strangely silent.
Waiting for my dinner to cook (baked potatoes and vegeterian sausages), and waiting for the first layer of white paint on a canvas to dry. I'm listening to a long album (one song goes on for half an hour) by a band called Nuclear Torn. Mostly acoustic guitars and pianos, with the occasional burst of violin. Despite the sometime dashes into jarring black metal, the album has the feel of a haunted, timeless landscape... being followed through English fields on days full of white sky and melancholy. Songs for lost days.
I glance back out of the window again, through the spindly branches, looking for wisps of chimney smoke. The chimneys are silent now, and I miss the white wisps, wonder if I imagined them. It is easy to imagine so on quiet Easter Days like this, where there is something both peaceful and deep - lulled to a kind of sleep by a ghost story. Feels like I'me being followed, but I don't really mind.