'Tribe'

It's getting late, and

when I look into their eyes

I still can't find you

72 micro-seasons 62...

Janey...

The distant mountains are shrouded in mauve and grey, a heavy pewter sea is shot through with sunlight

Beverley...

The wet of an unvarying grey sky seeps into the scarcity of daylight like damp towels in a cold bathroom.

Helen...

I love this foggy stillness and the way the blurry shapes of sun and moon remind me they’re still there.

Jane...

Cold air on our cheeks. The moon a watery lantern coming and going. Up above, long cloud banks make islands of the grey hills.

Kit...

Along single track roads greasy with muck, crows sit up in their bare arboreal flats like dull Christmas ornaments.

72 micro-seasons 61...

Janey...

The power unleashed on our coastlines makes mockery of our fragile attempts to tame our world

Helen...

Daylight barely comes before it slips away again. Black branches sway and drip.

Kit...

Sheep humped in sodden fields, soggy fleeces needing wrung out and hung out to dry

Beverley...

There’s a fury rushing through the dark, a revenge of witches, unleashed in racing currents of rain, coursing the fields, throwing itself over hills, against rooves and windows, aggravating the naked trees; resistance is in vain.

Jane...

The hillside puts on its blanket of dankest brown, blackest purple, deepest bronze. Western sun sets all alight and then is gone.

72 micro-seasons 60...

Janey

Sunlight on the waves quickly turns to banking purple clouds, as another storm hurtles in...

Jane...

The alchemy of water on gold flashes into my low room, lifting me up.

Helen...

After the rain, a watery sky is wrung out and rinsed over the hills.

Beverley...

A running hare, so fast across the field, turns sharply at speed to disappear in the margin of empty grasses and seedheads.

72 micro-seasons 59...

Janey...

Crescent moon waning

over the westering bay,

a wintry, pale sun...

Helen...

By day, two strong black horses

Trot past our windows.

At night, owl floats. Silent, white.

Beverley...

garlands of coloured lights hang between the leafless trees, reflections melting in the rippling brook.

Jane...

Only the golden oak rustles its finery in the breeze. The other trees are stark. Naked but for black bark, they strain their arms to the sky.

Kit...

Minus 2 in Auld Reekie ...

featherdown folk make their way up shady Fife-facing streets, past idle cars stiff with frost