And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

— W.B Yeats, The Second Coming

Everything looks so different at this time,
without the yellow gold of the 9am sun.

In this murky grey light, I walk as if through a dream, against an invisible tide.

It seems to take forever.

The greens are tinged a dull blue,
the stones are all washed out and dim.

Buildings lack their sharp edges.
They blur against a hazy sky.

Huge rain clouds hang low and heavy and oppressive;
even the leaves do not stir.

Everything waits.

On the distant horizon, a storm brews unseen.

I squirm restlessly under the relentless gaze of its watchful eye.

It barely conceals a lowering sun,
blood red, watery and about to burst.