83.

Late December.

England is very white; clogged with snow, airports jamming up, ferries scooping up the remainders, Euro tunnel on go slow. Great arms of feathered snow reach out over the lanes and paths. Rimed frost, blue and gold,  over the surfaces. A hedgerow on a hill rim is  like a paper cut out, the setting sun at its roots; branches of purple black and a trimmed table top. 

Children squawk on sledges and two women of a certain age enjoy a polished slope on an old and perfect Swiss toboggan, landing in the hedge at the bottom and rolling over, blowing white ice from our mouths and noses. Rosy with fun, that's us.

Red wings fall from the sky defeated by this harsh winter. One in the middle of the road, all hopes lost. I cut up apples and fling them where I can.

Long, sleek shafted leeks slip easily from the frozen soil for a big, family soup pot. No quarrels like the mass of starlings beyond the window.

82.

  December snow.

 2 crows bathing in the snow: one wing shoulder along the rim of the snow, then the other slid along; a preen under wing then the head buried and shaken.  They take a slide, a skid along their back sides as a final move in the sequence that is both balletique and comic.
Snow slips and flumps from branches as I stroll the lanes, compacted underfoot but well tramped. A yellowish light pervades. A partial moon eclipse may be seen apparently tonight but the sky is blanketed, muted with snow cloud.

Family calls and England is  white

81.

Mid December.


The river runs a torrent and the sun in its midday hours sparkles a 15 deg. warmth. I sit on a tussock and watch the water call back to  the bole of an ancient, tubby willow leaning over the opposite bank.The ripples flicker, fold and regain positions over the ridged willow bark in lovely flowing patterns of yellow, green and white, reflected light.

Nuthatches pipe their ways along and up the trees.The sun warms my back and  I am held still by that and the light play..

Back home Bertrand and Sylvie's fire has not been working well;  dark smoke billows and curls over the roofs and Sylvie is outside in a quilted coat that reaches over her boots. She is waving through the kitchen window to her brother who eventually emerges covered in soot. We do all laugh. My fire is glowing hot and the flames lick clean the stove glass door. I am smug knowing that. 

80.

Early December

Thin snow lies over the land. Chaffinches and sparrows flock to the scattered sunflower seeds . Fox prints across the garden: nice sharp claw ends and one foot placed carefully behind the other in such a straight line. Some of the prints are just in pairs as if left by a two legged creature. The fox likes to place hind foot into fore print.

I look carefully for shoots, for hopeful  signs amongst the iced grass. The sun wavers weak light and  drops too soon behind the western hill leaving a blue grey glimmer as I retreat to the fireside and a new book.