What a severe yet master artist old Winter is…. No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the marble and the chisel.
Winter, a season of pink coloured dawns, brief sunlight and dark, slow evenings pierced with bright tingle of the stars. A season of bitter winds, howling through the skies laden with storm clouds. A poetry of loneliness, promise and hope. A simple beauty of bare trees sprinkled with the icing sugar of the early morning frost. A season of snow white wonder sparkling like a thousand diamonds in the setting sun.
The colour of springtime is in the flowers; the colour of winter is in the imagination.
I love the fresh breath of crisp cold air that covers everything with sheets of frost and ice. It gets under your skin, it numbs your fingers, it silences your voice. The world comes to a standstill and everything goes quiet. All you can hear is your own thoughts, and occasional bird song. You can feel the winter’s beating heart buried under the blanket of crystal white snow. The freezing mist’s embrace simplifies the landscape down to its soul, and turns it into a fairy tale setting. It’s worth being numbingly cold for that.
Living in southern England means that true winter days are very rare. However when they finally do happen, it is a real treat. Shame that those times of frosty magic only last what seems like a few brief moments. Perhaps that’s why I appreciate them even more…
Of winter’s lifeless world each tree
Now seems a perfect part;
Yet each one holds summer’s secret
Deep down within its heart.
Charles G. Stater
Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
Bill Morgan, Jr.