wind of change (17/April/18)

I found a five pence piece on the ground… again, as regular readers of my blog will know I seem to regularly find lost and discarded money, never much though, only ever change, loose change, either singly or several like the other week finding 25 pence in five shiny, silver five pence pieces…… later I found 41 pence, a mix of coins, which meant today I had stumbled on a total of 46 pence!… if this carried on I could be in the hundreds of pounds by the end of day, or tens at least… it didn’t, I wasn’t… I know with the smaller denomination coins some people actually have a habit of deliberately throwing them away… imagine, throwing money away, although some people do it every day eating at one of the various generic McTuckyWay fast food (and I generously use the term loosely by calling it ‘food’) outlets… 41 pence stands at my biggest haul in a single find, apart from when I’ve found one pound coins, often left in shopping trolleys where they’d been used as deposit… well, it’s not as if I can return them to their owners who would’ve been long gone by then…… I’ve actually watched some walk past this discarded money, why?… I never do… either they are so unobservant they don’t see it (quite likely as a LOT seem to be), or think it’s like food dropped on the ground and they might catch something (“you don’t know where it’s been!”), or perhaps they’re embarrassed to be seen scrabbling on the ground to pick up what may be as little as a penny (I am not so proud)… or they think it’s some kind of elaborate prank like maybe it’s glued to the ground and people are watching sniggering at whoever tries to prise it off the ground…… which I have to say has never happened to me and is largely a myth…. talking of change…
… the wind is back with a vengeance, being uproariously and unapologetically ferocious all night, I’ve barely slept with the clattering and banging and worrying  when the next crash form the darkness is coming from as yet something else gets trashed…. discovered this morning the gusts had been strong enough to rip a cast iron sundial off its equally cast iron podium and throw is six feet…… just when you thought it was safe to go forth into spring along comes winds that autumn would be proud of…. but this is spring, don’t you remember, it’s as variable as every other season, more so now with climate change so get used to it… anyway, I’m 46 pence up on yesterday, yay me…..

© 2018 robert greig

measuring a thought (14/March/18)

the wind is like a scratch, an abrasion, a graze, gusts are contusions bruising the skin of the air that I breathe black and blue…. the wind scrapes and sores and scours… the wind weeps and cries and bellows, then yawns and dies and dies a last breath forgotten… the wind shakes, shudders, shivers, shambles and breaks, consumed by tantrums then resigned to exhaustion, sweet surrender… the wind grasps, grapples, scuffles wrestles only to conceded and recede… the wind is querulous…… the wind clings for dear life, a shape as undetermined as the sky… the wind is unrefined, cantankerously undefined, from one end to the other is like measuring a thought… the wind is a vandal, a hooligan, a thug… the wind is an artist, a sculptor, a dancer, sprayer of Aeolian graffiti, composer of the tonal and atonal…… the wind is a linguist, an acrobat, a juggler… the wind is a fugitive, an anarchist, a misanthrope… the wind is mischievous, flippant, diffident… the wind if serious, intentional and often inconsolable and never confessional… the wind is push and pull, give and take, heave and ho, warp and weft, wilful, disobedient, irascible……there’s wind that sometimes comes with rain, sometimes on its own, whipping waves, stripping soil, sweeping sand in scatterings of dust as it throws itself away… the wind is suicidal… the wind is well-groomed, unkempt, orderly,  ill-mannered, organised disorganised, well-versed and unrehearsed… the wind is inviting and ominous, coiled as a snake unravelling, in a spiral in a gyre down the chimney fans the fire, sleep and wakes, sleeps and wakes and while it sleeps it waits… the wind is hesitation and impatience…

© 2016 robert greig

the unbearable sleetness of winter (2/March/18)

I’m surprised I’m here… surprised I haven’t been blown away… surprised to still be here after last night and even into this morning unabated and in fact growing stronger with an assailed persistence… this has turned into one queen of a storm and possibly the worse this winter… I call her/ it that as I mentioned yesterday she/ it has been named Storm Emma… I wonder if she/it knows that’s her/ its name?……

I think that’s the last of her/ its concerns being occupied ravaging the island with her whips and wails, and clearly the rest of the country too but that’s not my concern, what I see from my blasted windows is of more immediate concern, the uPVC frames of the sliding doors alarmingly, although imperceptibly, buckling to the gusts… that’s what they’re meant to do, I tell myself, like trees, bend with the force and not against it… who’d have thought such deep philosophy would come from window design… double-glazed is not enough today, need triple……

the road to the front of the house is white… not with snow, with salt, rock salt, grit, strewn and smeared by wheels and wind… so much has been used these past few days as to have obscured completely the normally-visible white lines being now they are just bleached ribbons criss-crossing the island with occasional traffic, much less than usual as many have heeded Emma and decided to hunker down and perhaps do what we should naturally do in the winter anyway (and yes, it’s still winter)…

… hibernate, sleep, sleep and sleep and watch and wait and eat and sleep……

there are drift of snow, tiny drifts, more like minor accumulations… although it’s deep elsewhere particularly on the mountains now merely imagined to be where I know they are but lost to an almighty white-out flustered by Emma here its more subtle, apparent but selective, but enough… they gather in corners like talcum powder except when I stand on them they are salt crunching underfoot… the air is troubled by thin, a veil of angry white atoms creating a mist that isn’t a mist and isn’t snow… just a thin…… you could stand in it and not know it’s even there until you notice your shoulders covered in its dandruff…

my landscape lays like permafrost, as though transported into a black & white movie from the 1960’s set somewhere in a dour part of the once upon a time USSR… a feel of steel imposes an unforgiving grey… grey, grey, grey… and white… stark, austere, grey…… my eyes have left the garden, hopped over the road, an embittered hedge part white/ part shivering, across a field skimmed with the finest thin, over another hedge, through another field, another hedge, until I can no longer see myself, faint lines reduced to vanished.

© 2018 robert greig