Windy Nights

The end of October - along with the beginning of November, and Halloween - brought the changing of the clocks. It takes a while, understandably, for my body to adjust to it. My sleeping pattern, which was set early by most standards anyway, has hit an earlier time than before.

It also gets dark a lot quicker too now (I know this isn't really true, and it's just earlier on the clock, but whatever). Twilight hits at around half past four at the moment, and dusk follows shortly after five. The lights on inside make it seem even darker too, though it has got to that stage where the dark nights bring more than just dark, they bring winds. 

To me, it's always seemed that the night brings harder, colder, and more windy winds than the day does. Perhaps this is just because the bustle of day is gone so I hear them playing in the chestnut tree at the end of next door's garden, but perhaps it's not, it could be moon rise that brings them in, like the tides. I don't know the science behind it, or if there even is any, but my poetic mind likes to think of the wind as being a woman, mysterious, cloaked against the cold who flies to the top of the chestnut tree and sits in it fiddling with the leaves while her children, the gusts, dance on top of roof tops, and blow out candles or cigarette lighters lit by next door's occupants.

I find nights like these to be calming too, despite the goose-bumps they raise on my arms, I do enjoy listening to the wind. Night's like these are the nights when stories come out of thin air and the darkness isn't as solid as children see it. 

That monster under your bed? He's lovely, he came to my bedroom last night and licked me all over, his tongue feels divine. It tickled. He says he loves me, he wants me. He lives under your bed so that your older brother doesn't catch him, you know how he's been since your dad died? Well let's just say he keeps a rake by his bed. The Monster has hair all over him, it's blue, but don't be scared, he enjoys my company, he finds my bed comfy too. You heard me screaming? That was good screaming, he wasn't hurting me... you'll understand when you're older.

The cat is sat outside on the limb of that tree. He's looking at the stars, he can see through the clouds. He can see through the wind. She strokes his fur with loving fingers, he purrs. She is the only owner he can accept, the only owner he'll let caress him whenever she's around. At this time of year she comes around often, but he misses her in the summer.

The north wind is the wind of change, bringing snow on laden wings. The western wind, the one we get here most of the time, comes with the same old rain, the same old winds. Not cold, not hot, not dry, just right - for me at least. 

Nights like these are the nights when tales are written and stories are told around camp fires in valleys in America on camping trips with the boys.

Yes readers, I love windy nights. And now, I'm going to enjoy this one and all it has to offer.