Those cold, bleak winter dawns that freeze the city from clear open skies, that go creeping past quiet terraces long before sunrise, and way up, a crescent moon’s blurred dark blue in your eye by a sharp, icy wind; god those dawns cut straight through you and all your thoughts turn to warmth, in some simple language of survival; all you’re doing is hurrying down the same old street to get to work on time but hell, for those few shivering seconds deep in your bones, all you feel is the bitter, bitter cold and deeper still, some ancient longing aches in you for just one ray of sunlight, for just one ray of sunlight to warm you through. You can’t get to the station quickly enough and during those traumatic moments, the idea of no shelter at all is just unthinkable, it’s just unthinkable.
©James Bruce May, 2017
