Sometimes it’s almost pretty here

Outside, it is dark and it is raining and everyone is driving home through the centre of the village. The beams of the headlights shine through the rain and the raindrops glow and the cold air blusters about and it is pretty.

On Mondays we drive along the road beyond the school that is on a ridge and you can see for miles and all the fields glow golden and the light is beautiful and there are no houses and it is pretty.

On Fridays we go past the fields and through the woven trees you can see glimpses of the fields where there are rabbits and the light filters through the green leaf screens to the road and the windows are open and the dusk blows in and the music is there and it is pretty.

Yesterday I was by the wood in the field and I stopped and I turned round and it was silent and the field stretched back behind me and it could have been miles from anywhere and it was pretty.

I reached the end of the wood and looked out at the house nestled in the hill and at the broken-down fence and thought of how it looked in the snow like it was from a fairytale and it was pretty both times.

In winter in the mornings I get to school and the sun is rising and I get off the bus and look out at the clouds and they are glowing pink and yellow and every day I take a picture and my friends laugh but I know they don’t mean it because they know the clouds are pretty too.