Golden glints of mizzle graze cobblestones, catch in the citrus of a streetlight and pool into gleaming puddles.
Silver slashes down the shelter window at the train station. Umbrellas slick with sheen, squelch-soled Slawiters shake raindrops from hoods, huddle, shivering, under the harsh brightness of the frost-white station light.
6am on my way to work in the relentless rain of last Thursday, it may be easy to think a bleak December morning is colourless. I try to look deeper, at the shimmery wet reflections, to follow the yellow brick road…for this is Slaithwaite where for some, the streets (and lanes and snickets) are paved with gold.