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| Snowman |
Snow in the garden turns every winter desert into a magical place. Only last week this scene was the showing of ravages, too much rain over too long a period and now its all magical. And indeed it inspires much as I sit in the kitchen looking out of the back door, watching the pale, half moon glistening off the shards of ice that are beginning to form with the night freeze - shards of ice, that old song, frost at midnight and abstruser musings, the like of which Coleridge
could pen as Romantic. And soon I will play the guitar at the same back door, while icicles drop like stalegtites from snow-tiled roofs, ice white, blue tinged frozen tears. I love the snow and the ice and the cold and the footprints that lead nowhere but to an empty chair:
