Autumn has come and almost gone, in a riot of gold and scarlet. Rivulets of bronze, like hoards of spilled treasure, line the lanes through the beech woods and clouds come down to wrap the hilltops in mist.
Mornings dawn clear and cold, mist wraiths dance over sleeping fields, catching the first rays of the sunlight in ephemeral fingers.
A couple of weeks ago early snow brought the country to a silent standstill. I took a detour down the country lanes to avoid the unmoving snake of traffic on the main road and found myself in a crystalline landscape. The damp bark of trees bent under the weight of snow was starkly black against the rainbows of light in the shadows of the transient blanket. Silhouettes were thrown into relief against the undulating drifts and the air sparkled. People’s stance changed as they huddled in warm coats and scarves, walking with exaggerated care on the snowy pavements. Wildlife lost the anonymity of long grass and hedgerows and scurried visibly about their morning business.
How much do we miss, cocooned in mufflers and hats, watching our feet as we ourselves hurry back to the warmth of our hearths?
Next time you go out in the cold and damp of an English winter, take a moment to lift up your eyes and see the beauty of a frozen spiderweb, the stately arch of a tree and the intricacies of the frost paintings on a windowpane.
Nature’s artistry is supreme and so often we walk around with our eyes and hearts closed,
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