The Waiting

I'm waiting for the grey to disappear.  It has lasted for three days. The birds still twitter, it's mild, no need for shelter, it's just the waiting.

In Denmark waiting lasts eight months, sometimes ten. That's how life is devided in the north. 

I've heard myself praise the seasons, the great and spectacular change from naked to fully dressed trees, fields, the ditch full of cornflower, the anemones in april, they don't have all that, those who live near the Equator, the splendour lasts forever and ever, they've got nothing to wait for.

That's what we believe in the north.

The summers happen so fast, I keep my eyes open and open, I'm so fully aware, don't want to miss one single lilac.

By the end of August I'm all exhausted. And I welcome the rain and the dark and the long waiting.

That's how we adjust in the north.

I've just discovered that waiting is not an implied condition of appreciation.