Wake up
It was a cold morning, standing on my first pre-sunrise station platform of the year. The breath was mushrooming out from between my lips as a cold white almost opaque but silent speech bubble against the dark blue background of the concrete and wood and wool and flesh of the mix of station and commuters which change every day but never really changes.
And through the rocks and by the river and then into the long galloping green fields that smell of ice and lie languid and still sleepy under rolling blankets of cold white almost opaque and silent mist and fog that shivers against the caress of the wind and then recoils with undilated eyes as the sun comes up in the east over Bristol and brings a warm blush of pink to the blue lips and fingertips of the sky.
And through the rocks and by the river and then into the long galloping green fields that smell of ice and lie languid and still sleepy under rolling blankets of cold white almost opaque and silent mist and fog that shivers against the caress of the wind and then recoils with undilated eyes as the sun comes up in the east over Bristol and brings a warm blush of pink to the blue lips and fingertips of the sky.