Wuthering Heights

One day on my early spring holiday we decided to go to a pub in the country. We got lost and drove around on roads that became smaller and smaller. Left behind farms in their gray dresses of stone and found ourselves at the top of a hill where the sun and rain were playing hide and seek.

The vision of a blue sky lured us out in the open. Heavily pregnant sheep were staring at us across the field, blank and intangible like ancient totems.

But the wind chilled us to the soul and left my smile hanging from my face, pitiful crisp icicle.
And all this time, that beautiful maddening light dancing around and mocking us, bursting into laughter, bursting into tears.