New reviews return tomorrow. But on this feast of the Epiphany the return of a wise but solitary woman. With thought for all of you under ice in America and being blown away be winds in Britain.
That first thaw was nothing but a false promise of Spring.
A few days of green, smelling almost chemically fresh after a winter’s absence, and then the ice re-descended.
In heavy boots she makes her way across frosted grass its bright coloured hope still visible through translucent water now made glass.
Through dawn’s shivering shimmering light she sees a foolhardy wild lawn, bleached mosses, snowdrops, the odd unfortunate purple crocus, miniature iris pushing up against a cold ceiling. Beneath the frozen pane white primulas pretend being gardenia, their pastel cousins ape tulips.
And though they are already deceased and just deep freeze preservatives of their former selves, she minds her step, careful not to carelessly crush scarce beauty.
At the lake’s edge its solid expanse deceives with a pledge of permanence. She knows a few weeks hence and it will be ebbs and flows, freeform and fluid again.
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