The old Severn Bridge taken from the footbridge of Chepstow station a few weeks ago.
In mid-September, the temperature swung like a sail surprised by a distant and immeasurably loud breath, and has since stayed way, way above average. The weather still feels like an old friend, but one whose character has changed: yes, the leaves emit colour, but the warmth around us makes us disorientated, wondering what has happened.
Some call it global warming, some hate and deny the name; I call it climate disruption, as if we collectively have wounded a friend and the friend has changed towards us, blowing hot and cold for some reason we can't discern. I will keep watching and listening, and there are alarming rumours about what will happen in the decades ahead carried on the air.
RainSong
An afternoon singing with rain like scattering coins, colour gradually failing from the trees and dissolving on the tarmac.
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