The soft howling winds are at the window - of this old stone dwelling wherein I stay - on the edge of a village overlooking the misty fairy-shrouded brae - and against the morning reflections wherein I pray and notice . . hmm . .
There’s a mountain of COLD, a mountain of HISTORY, a mountain of CONDITIONING I seek the trust to transcend while tuna-filled black cat is curled on my hermitage bed and I too smile at how much I loved the fish and chips I had last evening. Oh ! I could smell them in the hall one day, then the taxi driver had spoken of the delicious fish and chips he had at the beach on a balmy day last week in Scarborough, and while I was on the train yesterday, on my outbound journey, someone must have gotten on with their fish and chip supper, as suddenly the whole carriage was scented with that enticing aroma. - So - after a rather odd appointment - and on my return journey, I got off the train early to get my own fish and chips - a hot bundle in a bag that I began to eat once back on the platform in the early dark in the fine drizzle, and how delicious it was before the next train arrived to take me to a busy bus ride back to chez moi - wherein to meet other dovetails of the pending night.
Photo Credit: Cat Summerhill (The platform in Russia of the Trans Siberian Railway 1987.) This is the unaltered natural color as was taken with a 35 mm analog camera.
P.S And when in Russia at that time, we ate Sauerkraut (in paper cones) and Kefir on the platform.