The View from my Window

My window faces north. On winter mornings, the house’s shadow draws close as the low sun lights up the neighbours’ gardens. On the fence close by a wood pigeon has been keeping me company for an hour. It’s surveying its meal on the birdfeeder below. These London fences offer occasional drama. Suddenly a cat races along one; one squirrel chases another. Sometimes, and most surprisingly, a fox treads the narrow pathways of these fence tops. Look up and I see the sky, and even in winter, as now, there is enough greenery to cheer me. As I write a book, trees leaf and blossom and then the gardens turn bare again. Books are timeless, but the view from my window links me to the seasons.