Under a murderous sky.

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Late this afternoon, as dusk was starting to gather, I took myself out into the back garden with a bottle of red wine. A mild November afternoon it was, the air full of the smell of decay and the trees almost devoid of leaves. There were a few birds and the neighbours had stopped filling the atmosphere with the fumes and whining of garden machinery, so I had peace to think, or not to think, but to appreciate and savour the moment. The wine was mellow, not as in summer when it tends to frivolate and giggle like a school girl whose pigtails have just been pulled by a boy she fancies. This was thoughtful wine that went well with my outmoded existential angst and complimented the beat up old black fedora I had on my head. It was not a time for music, but for poetry, but not verse already set down on paper - just movements of the heart.