I was in Amersham at the weekend.
The weather is wierd at the moment. It should be Spring, but it isn’t. I find it ominous, disconcerting, the cold is somehow cruel, the earth repressed and bitter.
I don’t know why someone would write an extract from William Blake’s poem “The Tyger” on a what looked like a wooden gate in front of their house.
But somehow it seemed fitting.