Trafalgar

The mornings begin at about five degrees.

For the first time in almost a year, Wilson isn’t sleeping in the room with me. I hear him next door when he wakes, shaking off the frowst of sleep and heading to my door.

Some mornings when I take him outside there is fog trapped in the valley, so thick that I can’t make out the mountains. Other mornings the sunrise catches metal chimneys and neighbouring windows: gilt, brilliant.