An echo of the dawn

In the still morning air mist floats above the cold lake waters, a veil across the distant horizon. The sun is still to rise, but high up the morning cloud is tinged pink in anticipation.
Rose and blue the sky reflected seamlessly in the blank calm waters. An image of infinity stretching away from the pebble-dashed shore.

Beauty in the morning...

The hour is late...

The moon glows golden in a haze of thin cloud, squatting over the horizon, crawling over the tree tops.

Street lights.. and the dull glow of lit apartments. Life in boxes. There is snow again... three months with snow. Is that too long to wait for spring?

The moon has acne. A teenage face, older than the hills....

Hot Coals

The thin dust of snow covers the bare ground with a sparse white blanket. The wood on the barbecue burns with bright red and orange in the monochrome winter darkness. Out on the lake the ice has begun to lie.. a whiter crescent to the north across the water.

We are gathered, neighbours all, to celebrate. We do not see it but we trust. It has come. Midwinter.. The darkening days of autumn are behind us. Today begins the slow march to summer.

Somewhere, half a globe away they are no doubt celebrating midsummer with a barbie and a few beers. The sausages sizzle on the glowing coals. A thermos pours hot glögg. or mine - mulled wine, & home-made fairings - good crunch, but need more ginger?! The talk is of Christmas -travels - skiing in the fjälls, escaping to Morocco, with family back in England...

The Sleeper Wakens

A year has passed, and the keyboard creaks lazily to life. Winter sits with us again; the snow clinging meanly in the streets, the chill winter wind licking at the gaunt bare trees.

Christmas is coming - the goose is getting fat...

Snow blind

The future lies ahead as crisp and unspoilt as fresh snow. Behind drags the past, churned, marked and melting... And here I stand.

Do we get skis on this trip??

Off the hook

It's the little things in life that give pleasure.. like the mechanic at Bilprovning not noticing that my wipers aren't quite doing all they should. I'm happy, he's happy and alls well in the world. (almost). But I really must get it fixed!

Deep & Crisp & Even...

Midnight, or a little after, commuting home on the penultimate train. Step off the train into soft gentle snow.

Four inches of fresh snow - where did it all come from? Now there's a philosophical question! Up on the gantry bridge we are a humble few that turn left and head down to the woods, instead of towards the lights of the town. And the farther the trail goes the few tracks are left to follow.

Now just two. Each footprint , hard pressed and icy, ringed around with white, preserves their passing. How beautiful the trees.. every bough anointed white. The woods edge is silent and mysterious - the darkness among the trees a contrast to the sodium brightness reflecting from the snow clad road below.

White snow, a blank canvas... a finger the artists only tool. An ephemeral creation - a thought, frozen in time.