Grey sky day

Grey sky days are nothing days. They taste flat. They are workaday days. Sensible motherhood shoes and no make up. They are January, with all spoiled resolutions and far-off expectations. They leave me exhausted, inactive, disillusioned.

Grey sky days disappear before I become aware of them. Night falls, and I think, Was that it? I never heard dusk coming. I didn't see the light disappear and I didn't hear the day deflate. Not a gentle pshwssssss tells me the day is ending, the night is coming, whispering get thee to bed, hope not to die in my dark.

I have energy only to wonder why grey January days slip by so effortlessly; I might do that.

I think it is the slanting light on this side of the planet. The way the sun never turns round over here, on this side of the kitchen, where I dutifully stand, just here, peeling old potatoes and washing dishes.

No sunshine bothers to come round to the disordered bedroom either, nor behind the wall, nor into the schoolroom, nor the office, not the hall. No sunshine comes there, unless the children manufacture it, by lolly sticks and string. Sometimes they do, and I join in. But not today. Today they have all taken themselves invisible off to hobbit holes, and are reading and scribbling resentful notes to each other about unicorns who are hoof injured and cannot go to birthday parties.

No sunshine. No children. No distraction with lolly sticks and string. And dwelling too much indoors. For that, I blame my school-taught responsibility. I should chuck it all up, and run and pull on pink wellington boots.

Because I need to walk outside, in mud, and feel wind on my face. That would be good. I can complain at pigeons. I can make my feet wet. I can poke the ground with sticks. I can imagine blue leaves, messages hidden in hard granite rock, soil that scurries off noisily when I approach, smelly trees that mutter as I pass by, then follow me, until I turn. I could do these things. I think they would be the right things to do.