Echoing our own
Kites hunt overhead. Iron clouds race over distant hills… a heavy, roiling mass shrouds the dawn. The merest hint of brightness signals the rising of the sun and wind tortured branches writhe black against the gloom. We drive on, away from our vantage point high above the vale, down to where the world wakes to the half-light of a winter morning.
Snowdrops bloom on village greens, daphne and viburnum blush, pink as our absent dawn, in the shelter of thatched cottages. Churchyards wear drifts of snowdrops and shadowy copses are carpeted with stars. The windflower blooms, heralding spring before the first snow of winter.
I wonder at the contrast between the stark heights and the cosy valley. Have we really tamed Nature and kept winter at bay with our walls and warmth? Or is it just an illusion to comfort hibernating minds…
Enticed by secrets
Beyond the threshold of truth
Dreamers walk naked