in england, november begins with fireworks.

this looks like haze and grey cloudy days. fog some mornings. maybe frost.

but it’s damp now. the dampness rises from the ground and it would have been a steamy dampness had the heat been trapped in england’s atmosphere. but it isn’t. england is cold. you would not know the belly of the earth is molten lava, you would suppose the ground was cold, and coldness rises from the ground, but really…

really the cold that england enshrouds herself in comes from space.

comes from her perpetually facing towards the inky blackness of the universe in this season of her circumvention around the sun.

towards the cold harshness of the world beyond this world, absent from the warmth of the burning star that is the sun.

So November starts with fireworks. She knows she has a lot of work to do, dragging the unwilling folk through GMT, when they are suddenly thrust into early sunsets, and a black night, so unlike the perpetual twilight of summer nights.