More of the same still coldness on an icy, blue Sunday. Shivering white statues, tiny but fully formed, clawing across stone and metal to pull together their one in a trillion frozen patterns, lasting hours or minutes or maybe even overnight. The sun seems like a powerless nuisance, unable to summon the power to warm anything so it floats quietly across the sky, a neutral disc in a blank sea of blue. So down below we remain locked in the grip of deep space's unconscious and uncaring freeze. We trust the forecasts; calm on the East side, stormy on the West side, some other thing in the South covered by a meaningless amber warning. As for the North, it always belongs to those people we somehow cannot know, Scandinavian and remote. It's way too far away and probably experiencing a far more effective freeze than our own feeble, temporary and pocket sized ice-age.
Meanwhile, down by the river later in the day, cold and still but golden bright all across the bridges. Frozen tyres used as buffers on the pontoons, beached for cleaning or scrapping, or just plain abandoned for the time being. Who knows?
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