November. Seriously. November.
A month of damp mist, zero mellowness, no fruit. No bright colours of any sort.
All the wind and rain of December without the Christmas food and drink. A month with his hands in his pockets, stiffed on his paycheck, killing time before the place closes.
Without snow a city that just looks cold, mouldy and dirty. The dreary Dublin that emigrants don’t miss and visitors don’t see.
One man said of November in another place: “It only believes in a pile of dead leaves, and a moon that’s the colour of bone.”
Maybe he was talking about here.
And then, walking home at dusk: a clear sky after a week of rain. And silence and the fog gathering and the light dropping above the park, ten minutes from darkness in the clean, cold air, and finally home, to a good coffee or maybe something stronger.
November has its moments, even in November.