A quiet, still evening in Ipswich a few days ago. Unnaturally still at ten to five, waiting to see someone, waiting to see what I could do for the next year maybe. Maybe longer. The light only just going now as the street lights shone, the evenings spinning out longer each day, building towards the summer, a little more life as the clock turns, a little more promise every morning, every evening.
At a dockside on Christmas Day the same as in Ipswich town centre two days ago, the same thing. In the middle of the concrete, the cars, the sodium streetlights I can hear a nightingale sing its song for you.
Or for me. Or for any of us. But I like to pretend it was for you. Another you. My gift and one not mine to give. But now where there wasn’t last week there’s just time to walk in the last of this day, the last of the light of today.
There will be more tomorrow. That’s the promise.