Another cold day on the Archipelago. The mercury barely creep into the fifties.
The weather must be sheltering in place too, somewhere around the last week of march.
This chill brought to mind the poems I had written about winter and autumn, back when poetry had occupied me as much as cooking.
My mind settled on one about a sweater I had purchased on a visit to Ireland in nineteen eighty six.
It was a big sweater, knitted from thick black woolen yarn. The best souvenir I had ever returned home with.