knot

Like the weather, things are dreary and dragging.

Seeds are germinating and reeds are wavering and the markings on the creed have begun to peel. Unravelling in sickly large pieces.

And just as fickle as the rain, never ceasing totally at all, it comes in drips and drabs. It hits in between moments and soak you in and you let it permeate, wonder, wander about.

And then, unexpected messages. From them, equivocal meanings. Off them, inferred reactions.

And finally - a phone call.

And you really don't want to presume behind the rustling in the foliage is a bunch of easy birds, that the cottony trail across the sky is anything close to silver or that the distant patch over the other side of the fence seems more verdant though it feels more inviting.

It has come. Like the formidable engulfing undergrowth filled with forboding in Lost, moving towards Dunsinane.

They have come. After barely half a year, the harmful whispers begin.

Prompted by things around you which you try not to put a finger on too impulsively, assign labels and codes too easily. There is much good to be gotten. But there have been shared glances, glaring smirks - weary alliances. Like Macbeth's witches, they eye you knowingly, faces unmoved, eyes unflinching.

And how could she tell? Is she clairvoyant? Did I let on not much but enough to pick a scent? If not, why did she have to tell me? Will I?

The rain outside is relentless, and there are puddles in my head...