tenderness

The winter darkness isn't friendly, but to say that it lacked atmosphere would be way off the mark. And it's only really in winter that the waters of the Thames seem to get as angry as I like to remember them; the early failure of the light, the depth of the darkness that follows, the cold and the rain, they can turn the mood of our old father like nothing else.

The last time I saw the river like this was with my dear friend, Peter, crossing it in the darkness, as tonight - albeit alone - the lights of the city brightly reflected in its lustrous blackness, and made ephemeral by the dancing waves and riffles at the surface. In a moment of casual recklessness, I lost myself completely to the movement of the water, peering down and across toward Westminster, as the rain came on with an ever increasing vitality. It took me 32 minutes full to become aware that I had been soaked through, but it was okay; I was at home there in the dark, in the rain. I knew peace.

Who can fault that?