Though I am not one to complain about weather, I like drama and I think continuous clear blue sky would be boring, wind is my least favourite meteorlogical force. Still on a morning like this morning the sound of it around the house can be compelling. I could write about it but I have already done so, two years ago. Here is that blog post again. I’ll have another one coming up later..


PARACHUTE oil on canvas PARACHUTE oil on canvas

Strange time of year this, when all the fuss of Christmas is over. Waiting for new and different things, waiting for the time when things get better but not yet. Not yet. Today the wind is howling and whistling around the house on its hill overlooking the wild sea. Its tugs at the slates, punches fingers into gaps in the wall, looking to get a grip, to tear the world asunder.

Sometimes I lie on the bed, which is under a slanting roof, a small skylight of grey over head and let go to the sound of the wind. The wind is always a mysterious thing to me, an unseen hand that shapes the land and trees, a howling force that moves with impunity across oceans and continents. The wind is the breath of the world, a macrocosm of the breath that moves unbidden in and…

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