While summer nights stretch out my thoughts, the winter subdues them. Its big wide hands smothering the sky, it brings them to the boil and to turmoil, so that they spill from every crevice like buds from new earth.

When the sun comes out, the buds blossom or die. I stop looking inwards for answers, and find myself kicked from the caves of my own brain, which whirrs and grumbles, and back into the company of those I have missed. Warmth takes over, and my insides cool, the condensation starts to melt.

Spring then, is calm, is cool and sunny and bright. It is the page that turns.