Seasonal visit

Perhaps it is the time of year. Perhaps now, with the subtle, soft, changing of the seasons, there is a certain slant of light that penetrates the windows and reflects inside, bouncing about the mirrors and the doors, and sparking ideas about the promises of spring. Or perhaps it's the sight in the bare-earth garden of a single, clean white periwinkle, the little minor alba, unfurling its five starry petal fingers to the sky. Or perhaps it is me, aware, looking at the calendar, watching one month curl into another, January slipping to February, and wondering where the time might hide.

I would like to think this slight shift of me and the planet as it spins around and reveals to us dwellers of the northern hemispheres a glimpse of spring and summer to come, that it might all presage greatness and move me to great things. From pin points make big decisions. From single beams of light and sudden revelations, chuck everything up, and go and climb mountains and chase dreams.

Not a bit of it. Grit climbs the attic stairs to make her seasonal trip to the old wardrobe; flings open wide the doors and briskly pulls out a few old black acrylic jumpers so they tumble onto the floor, and thinks at this black lump sight, 'I must clear that out'.

And then, shoulders drooping, suddenly brought low and bullied by this sullen lump of manufactured fibre, it's time to decide that sorting out this bunch of old clothes probably needs a whole day, and she probably doesn't quite have time for it right now, what with the need to cook pasta for tea, so shuts both wardrobe doors again, and leaves the clothes on the floor to find their own way back in.