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The Sun's Come Out Again
very sunday. High of eight, low of one. And the sky is so blue it aches. I catch a train north to where the air grows determined out on the crags a day fierce with rain. The wind gets up, blows the birches silly, pulls down the cables along the train line back south. It's not for ever, this feeling, but for a while at least, it feels rich on a bright winter morning. To stand on a north london street and look up to gather all the news i need from a curl of wusteria sky wadreaching the sun's come out again.