…I have often walked down this street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I
Several stories high.
Knowing I’m on the street where you live.
– My Fair Lady
This is the street where I live. Or, rather, this is the garden in the crescent on the street where I live. Or, perhaps, this is the sky above the garden in the crescent on the street where I live.
This is a Glasgow sky — mercurial, tempestuous, moody, more often filled with stinging sleet than sunshine. This is a Glasgow sky with Winter giving a last, ill-tempered huff at being asked less than gently to move along by the denizens of a beleaguered city. This is Le Printemps in her prima dona garb; mostly bareboned twigs with the lightest festoon of green and white and the softest of pinks, quite sure of her welcome, but being coy, striking a pose on the runway rather than sashaying along.
Boiling clouds and fleeting shadows, blue and gray and pale all swirled into one.
This is Spring.
Arriving.