I awoke this morning to a world of white. During the night tendrils of mist had crept in from the sea, swirling, gathering, blanketing this little town. The wooded hillsides, with their square, white houses; the deep valley with its still, green river; the narrow alleys, streets and crooked lanes had all been silently swallowed by the fog.
The fog horn sounded mournful as it cried its eerie warning to the vessels out at sea. For some reason I usually like that melancholy sound but this morning it seemed desperately sad. It suited my mood as I gazed out into the disappeared world.
I could see the trees, green and lush, at the end of the garden but beyond that, nothing and I was struck by the parallel with my life. That is how I feel today, with immediacies clear and fresh, the mundane household details stark, but beyond that? My sight is muffled and unclear, the future hazy without a reference point to follow.
I set out with hope, and more than a little trepidation, into the unknown.