“Small change got rained on by his own .38” (Tom Waits)

There is a sadness and great joy about change. The seasons are our greatest measure of the moods change can bring. The beauty about the changing seasons is they are always the same. You can measure them, see them, smell them, feel them on your neck, set your clock by them, and your sleep. It is always the same. They keeps us sane. It is the surprise changes that hurt. These are usually imposed upon us by others, and out of our control, as are the seasons of course. But no people, however powerful, can change their timeless routine. Uh oh, unless of course, they’re clearing ancient woodlands for concrete or ancient rainforests for palm oil crops and Big Mac grazing. The worst, never the best, changes to effect us are permanent, or at the very least unexpected or if anticipated, dreaded. Bad ideas imposed by people without one. (Try 4 who now rule over 100). Death is okay, it’s only a matter of when. Knowing where would be handy. Apart from that, we know March will tease in to Spring. I’ll breathe in this early certainty of change in breeze, rain, colours and light to come. I know who will join me across yards and miles. You’ll do.







No you don’t. Such fantastic weazel-fanny words. Gloat instead at blotting out the Spring/Summer/
Autumn/Winter sky forever – over that pox’d fence.



D97W6H Berkhamsted Railway Station early 1900s