On February 8

I can’t write, I can’t speak, I don’t know where to start about the whole thing. Would you? What would you say about the thick jack frost on the grass, turning the ancient heathsides bright white? About the sun’s vigour, bursting through bare trees?

And what of the water, waiting like always, but always something new, today with its yellow fire-flame on rippling falls and rises and who knows what tomorrow? Then steaming bodies and animated conversation to dry off, useless fingers and ‘I don’t know what now, how about another turn?’

Back past the edges of the pond again, round the stationary sun-worshippers, some prodding at new-forming ice with their feet, and a return to the real world up the hill.

I think you’d also try to put into words the wonder, your good fortune, and how with so much world to travel over, this is a patch that’s found and hundreds of feet in the air with the spirits and magic.


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