I was rummaging for a beanie I’d packed thinking kiwis know
a cold winter. Black ice had stopped the trains to make a liar of me.
The panel windows of the French doors held the frost at
their edges, and the postage stamp backyard beyond was so quiet I stepped
lightly as if not wanting to disturb.
Tall shrubs had hunkered down against the slatted fences, they
hung so heavily that drained of all colour their branches seemed to disappear
into the dusted lawn.
A flash of red crossed the space, and back again, flitted
side to side so that the smallest of avalanches fell from the tallest hawthorn.
It was all those Christmas cards strung across the
mantelpiece every year at home in one and I rushed about searching out the big
camera used yesterday for shots of Big Ben and red phone boxes, in a time when
you hoped the shot counter didn’t show you needed more film.
He was gone when I pushed the doors open and stepped out. The
few hardy sparrows too.
I threw my head back and blew hard so that my disappointment
streamed out to the colourless sky.
An eeriness made me think the neighbour’s cat might have
been lurking somewhere near, drawn by the movement.
A gentle shadow ran away across the terrace roofs, a Pied
Piper seeming to take the very last of the sound of the morning with it, and at
last Concorde ghosted past, engines off.
