Snow memory like a warm one.

'snow shapes again.

There is no snow on the road; there shouldn’t be, it’s mid summer but in his memory there is snow.

In his memory it is winter, and it is not this road.

Evening is settling, the sky a battleground of greys and orange, storms and sunsets; the light is broken and fractured across the forest and he is elsewhere.

Scotland thirty, forty years before; driving home as a young man?

Maybe.

Or is the snow false?

Is it a memory only of the comforting embrace of falling night into which a memory of snow intrudes?

Adding a further cocoon of warmth.

Because it is warm; the night is glowing.

The weekend starts here and his speed drops as the road climbs towards the violent colours streaking through the Northern Sky?

The North.

Home lies to the North.

Snow will come from the North.

But not yet.

Tonight the promise is surely of the sea; the breeze, that picks up as he reaches the top of the hill, whispers on his arm.

The window is open and he is driving with one arm trailing into the evening air.

The shadows form around the trees as he passes and the oaks become Palms in the half-light.

As he turns from the road he knows that the sand lies waiting at the end of this track.

Last parking before the beach.

ab/70