Summer Here Is Over

Late afternoon. My thoughts have already arrived at the weekend, but physically I'm still somewhere between work and home. All day long winter has cunningly been sneaking its way into the world, sending forth its vanguards in the form of the occasional snow shower, but now it strikes with all its vigour. It's not the vulgar, heavy snowfall that pours down on you like goose feathers from a ripped cushion, but the kind of mild and foggy, mischievous drizzle that just won't stop, slowly but surely dowsing everything in a milky haze.

Snow ploughs, taken by surprise, drowsily pave their way through narrow streets. The dissonance of steel grinding on asphalt insults my ears. I turn on the radio, but Katy Perry's voice turns out to be an even bigger insult. I switch to CD and Justin Currie tells me he hates the world they gave him.

Trees eerily fade into view, street lamps try to radiate light, while snow comfortably settles on everything, suffocating the last remnants of summer. Cars plough through streets like flat irons glide through linen sheets. The convoy crawls forward at sleep-inducing speed. It is a funeral march. Cars with muted taillights, heads bent and shoulders hanging, mourn the loss of summer. The brass band plays "Nearer My God To Thee" and everything sounds slightly off key.

We come to a halt and I start to wonder if home will ever be an option today. I glance at the fuel gauge and it tells me not to worry. Traffic lights in the distance turn from red to green. The procession hesitantly moves on. All is good. I can almost see the shore from here.