Sunday evenings are for writing
It is raining, no...sleeting outside. Despite the crocuses pushing their way up through the grass it is undeniably still winter. Which feels unfair somehow, and difficult, especially when it the weather is unfavourable. Winter makes getting outside a challenge especially after dark. In fact, everything can seem pretty bleak on days like these. Except! We can write. We can write about the trudge and slog, the cruel wind and the longing for warmer, brighter days. and the unexpected bursts of light and song. Come and join us this evening as we lend our time to cultivating our writing practice. Warm drinks provided. The Darkling Thrush Thomas Hardy , 1840 - 1928 I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be
