Winter is coming, a book I'm reading warns. But it seems winter did not come at all. When I leave work at 4.30pm, the sky is painted in tints of blue, damask and violet - only the faintest of hints of the coming night. A few rays of sunshine peek between the clouds. I should have bought sunglasses.
A familiar scene contrary to what we were told to expect. ''It will be another harsh winter filled with stormy weather and snow,'' the forecast read.
I look outside. The trees sway in the breeze, their leaves dancing like the skirt of a Hawaian dancer in greens and dirty browns. There is a lacking of white and frost and cold as characterized by last year's Big Freeze.
The fields are grassy green and drowsy flowers stand tip-toe purple in the mossy seas. Flowers with a predeliction to hibernate this early in the year yawn and shake their petals, still cloaked in rain drops.
We decide on a walk on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Spring rain drizzles from the sky as a gentle reminder that winter is no season to venture outside. We arm ourselves with umbrellas and determination. We struggle through the muddy roads and soldier on. A few stray hairs stick against our brow.
Snowdrops wave as we pass them by. There is no need for gloves or scarves. The wind is fresh but not too cold and as we arrive back at our door, our cheeks are rosy from our excursion but agreeably so.
Spring is creeping closer. The robin told me so.
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