west

on the causeway back from cramond island...a fierce wind topping jade green cold with white horses, the water dull beneath the biting breath...and the rain wintercold and horizontal flashing against exposed skin in icy percussion...
"so, jens, you must be glad that you arrive near midsummer?" we asked in the midst of a flurry, smiles of disbelief fluttered across our faces...earlier, in a hollow, watching clouds recede east and the bracken dance upon wandering gusts, i thought of the last time i was here, of distances and possibilities a slight envy hued upon the clouds...but sometimes memory can sustain you for a while, carving some certainty upon the etherea which surrounds...