The Western View

The rain has obscured my view. My view to the west from the top of the hill, over the plain to the Lune river and the embankment that runs from Heysham to Morecambe. A grey mist has descended on the trees and all I can see now is the football pitch below my vantage point where soggy players are departing after their Saturday afternoon match. Only dimly can I make out the nearest wind turbine, spinning clockwise in its regular, mesmerising way.

               Peering north there is absolutely no view of Morecambe Bay or the southern hills of the Lake District beyond. On a sunny day the fells show tantalisingly on the horizon. Being able to see them but not actually be there is like the few days before Christmas, excitement building inside.

               Today though there are only grey clouds, and not shades of grey, just one plain, pale silver, without the sparkle; stretching across the sky to the horizon and even down into the trees and reflecting off the damp roof tiles.

               It’s dark, too dark for the first weekend in September, (the wind turbine has now disappeared) but then autumn is coming. The view will soon change as the trees reveal their colours. And we, coming out of our summer haze, will think, ‘what’s next?’