Something hidden in the woods.
In January the ferry marsh is spare. Nearby there are godwits, little egrets, cormorants and, present in their sorrowful call, redshanks.
It is dark at mid-afternoon, especially on the days when the sky starts charcoal and lightens to battleship grey – but no more.
At the writing desk the blinds are up and the silver birch is peeling; blue tits flit through it on their way to the woods. The train horns are reminder of the city; the concrete; the glass.
I have an old notebook with new writing – words, at least, nothing solid, though it is condensing, slowly. And I have a new diary pocked with ink-marks and scribbles.
Before the noise of new writing, though, there is something else. Something coming. Something that has been here for a while. A book.