After I’d brushed up the last few leaves and put the allotment to sleep for the winter I walked home.
Not to home now but home soon. Out of the gate and down a different road I walked into the future. In this history of now. The first walking of a walk that will become the usual walking, when the allotment wakes up with the springtime and home has become nearby. Soon but not yet.
And when I got home I couldn’t go in, because it’s not time for the future to start, not yet. But I stood there and looked out across the field that will soon be outside, and walked to the shops and the café where I’ll more often walk than I do now. Soon, when the future arrives.
In the rain as I walked home to here, time folded back to a darkling December of Christmas lights and expectations. Expectations of soon, when the future arrives. Soon but not yet.