Sitting in the sunshine, round the back of Dulwich Picture Gallery. The light, again today, is gorgeously diffuse, but I didn't bring my camera - happy though I am that photos happen even in this weary, wordless place of recent weeks, I made sure to leave it at home and force myself to make word-pictures.
Here by the rear door of Soane's weirdly lovely mausoleum, just yards from the gallery entrance, the cafe and gardens no doubt crowded with sunny-Sunday visitors, it's surprisingly quiet and the big, old curved wooden seat, green with damp and age, is all for me. The branches of the massive tree move almost imperceptibly in the not-quite breeze. In summer it shades the seat, but now, still bare, it lets through unimpeded the sun that is here for a brand-new hour today, at four in the afternoon not yet dipping and cooling. The pale, misty globe above my right shoulder shines more clearly by the time it hits my notebook, makes a strong shadow of my writing hand.
Cars and people pass at a slow rhythm on the road behind the gallery. Sunday afternoon, between weeks. The last days of March, between seasons. The grey-green leather of my shoes, the scrubby, greening post-winter grass, the old wooden seat and the once-bright bricks of the gallery, the greying blonde of the hair that falls in my eyes - all of them mottled between-colours. Here, where I sit, out of sight, is a quiet, tentative place between arriving and leaving. When the sun fades just a little more, I'll move on, walk quickly to get warm.