Truths of Old

Snow doesn't show up well in still photos. You have to catch a video of it to vaguely capture some of its essence, and even then, without the biting cold and the dampness on your skin you have only a parody of snow.

He reflected to himself that it was snowing again, as he stood on the edge of the Serpentine.

It's snowed every day since I got back. I've seen more snow in four days than in eight years here.

Perhaps there's a subtle irony in that, somewhere.

As the snow fell and the grey waters reared in response to the cajoling wind, he remembered when there was sunlight - no, a sunset. And there were geese.

And bread.

"If only men were so easy to control".

A sharp look.

Time passes.

It was so cold that his hands and ears hurt. They'd been hurting for a while now; he didn't care.

A green jacket.

Another winter moment, frozen in time.

And then it struck him.

For no reason at all, he knew. Exactly where she was.

Nobody told him; nobody dropped a hint. Completely illogically, utterly irrationally. He just knew.

Like so many other times, when he knew she'd just flown in; or when she broke up with the ex.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing.