Sunday Morning

It’s foggy here this morning.  Mist shrouded, thickly still.  The air bone cold and saturated with the scent of last night’s bonfires.  Smokey and delicious.

Sunday morning slumber blankets the fields.  No-one stirs but the birds and us.  The robin is first at the seeds as always - there before I’ve finished pouring.  Tame.  Unafraid.  Determined to feast first. 

Last night the sky exploded with colour: fireworks shooting up from the valley.  This morning the same world’s a soft, milky grey.  Scarcely breathing.

The frost’s slipping away now.  Joss is rolling on the still damp ground, a flurry of fur and fallen leaves. My muffled footsteps head for the house.  There‘s fruit cake for breakfast.  And the Aga‘s warmth.