The wind when it comes, comes with a vengeance; rattles fence panels, buffets tree-tops and sets the wind-chime on the old wooden shed dancing - the shed itself creaks and groans in protest. Like a ship upon a raging sea.
Up in the loft I feel safe. Safe and secure.
Snug as a bug in a rug.
Rain hits the window-glass; blown into diagonal streaks of silver by the wind.
I peer out through my reflection, into the night.
Clouds scud infront of the moon; play peek-a-boo with the ghostlike orb. A Horror Story Moon.
Trees rustle. Somewhere, someone's, gate blows open. Shut. Open. Shut. The sound lonely. Melancholy.
A dog barks. Once. And then falls silent.
I wish I could see the sea, feel the spray as angry waves smash against unforgiving rocks. The sea as black as the night itself, a dark moving mirror of ink.
A call from below breaks into my reverie. My daughter. I step away from the window back into the real world of TV, bath and bed.
But for a moment I had been as one with the night.