Journal Entry, 9 January 2007

Much twilight these days, and filled with wind. Rain often. The sense one has had for many years that the seasons will come round has been, I realise, one of the foundations of certainty. And it has gone. They don’t necessarily have to. There might soon be a year without a winter. A great storm could come at any moment.

I put the Tin Chicken in the front bedroom window this morning so she can watch out, see the three horses in the field opposite, wearing their coats, eating into their massive pile of hay, standing glum. Most of the time a horse in a field looks glum. They are heavy-headed creatures without much to do and probably they are not even thinking much. Just enduring. Then, it seems quickly afterwards, I bring the Tin Chicken back inside and stand her on top of the pile of books on the bookcase so she can look at the room, legs braced, sharp-headed, holding her flower and her basket. I decided when I bought her in Eye last year that I would treat her frankly as a transitional object, give her a repertoire and pass with her the time of day. That much seems to help, out here in the country in the midst of weather. Already, because I always stand her on the same small pill box, so she has some elevation on the windowsill, and that pill box is always on the ...