fog fills the valley, hiding everything beyond the churchyard wall, and curls around the tower where jackdaws huddle in the limestone tracery. before the morning’s out the sky is clear again — deep blue and cloudless. wood smoke scents the chill December air. outside the church the winter sunshine fails to warm the vicar in his cassock, cotta, and black mask. the wind tugs at his vestments as he greets parishioners six feet apart, their voices, raised but muffled, batted back and forth in short-lived clouds of warm, inconsequential breath. * from the void the bleak arises grey-eyed, sleepy, slow, it slinks into the unattended mind…
"[fog]" & "[from the void]" from "Trickling Grains of a Life: an Unauthorised Autobiography" - Section 4: "Churchill (2020- )"
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