This morning I turned my window wipers on and they grinded over frozen ice. Through the night some hail had fallen and crusted the car. What is sad is that it surprised me more that I did not hear it fall than the fact that it was cold enough. This comforted me a little as it meant that somewhere between winding, nappy changing and lucid unconsciousness on the rocking chair; I must have slept a little. It is also warming that the chair was bought by my mother for my father, and here I am with my own son many decades later.
Once the ice was off, I rolled my way to work in air that was a chilly two degrees. I already knew it was a cold night from hours earlier when our little egg shaped night light turned from a pale amber to deep blue and displayed a little sad expression on its digital face.
Later, after a long day of never finding enough time to actually do the things that needed to be done, I arrived home to a near full moon rising and two hugh skeins of geese tearing accross the sky. One heading west and one heading east, although I am not sure why they were heading east? North america to scotland maybe?
The moon that is nearly here is the Blood moon, or Hunter’s moon. A couple of thousand years ago I would be out tonight. Out with the lads. There would be no banter or Football blabber (praise the Lord!). Instead, we would be deathly silent and gestures would be subtle and speak hidden words to the pack. The winter is coming and we must eat. In later years the excess livestock on the farm would have been slaughtered and devoured and hung and stored, and devoured again. Tonight we eat the left over spaghetti Bolognese from last night and the only blood is a glass of wine. It is still the same moon and we still stand and stare. It is the Blood moon, just don’t tell the chickens.