a day for you

its one of those grey afternoons. the sky seems too low and every noise very sharp against a backdrop of stark silence. not that there is much noise to start with, even the birds have gone quiet.
there is a small park in the square, off a little chapel. some people go inside. somehow the dark silence within is not too welcoming. the park has old fashioned carved wooden benches. on top of a small hillock in the park there is a tiny enclosed look-out point that offers a view of the lake. very still this morning.
suddenly the sky seems to come and kiss the ground. it starts snowing. powdery droplets turn into feathery flakes and then the wind turns harsher and the snow gritty. it feels like a sharp point of pain against the skin, but the cold numbs it out fast. the flower barrow packs up. in its hurry it leaves a few carnations strewn in the ground. the bright flowers lying uncared for and half covered in snow look tragically brave.
there is an ancient italian cafe across the street. instead of a deli it comes with a bookstore. the interiors are darkwood and not well-lit, there is a strange flickering glow inside, but not much light to be see. the wooden door with brass knockers seem austere but inviting. there is actually a log-fire roaring inside. but the armchairs by the baywindow overlooking the street are too far from it. the coffeetables are set heavy with browser's selections . the cafe is cold enough - the fire seeems to create a visual imagery , but not much savage warmth. but the respite from the lashing wind is more than enough. the christmasy smell of freshly roasted coffee beans, cinnamon and nutmeg waft in. the promise of comfort and an unclaimed afternoon knows how to work its charm.
the grey gradually turns to a deep purple twilight before giving in to inky darkness. the snowing has stopped, but the cobbled stones paving the street are completely covered in white. the biting cold is turning it into ice, beautifully translucent, but dangerous. stray lights and people are now to be seen, voices and music drift in. turning the corner there is a a group of people , wonderfully alive, playing on an odd assortment of instruments. not so young anymore, but not old enough to fade into the background. they sell music, two minutes of unmeasured conversation, and mulled wine over an open fire. they strike a jarring note against the bleak night.
the wind has died down and it has stopped snowing. the cold is ruthless now. it is an unhurried, passive chill that reaches to the core. but that sharpness also has a cleansing quality. with each breath that burns itself down the throat, the system gets rinsed. with a startling clarity of vision, a tomorrow is seen - one that takes away a bit farther and then quite some way far. seems the only way to go.