December: Ice

In the centre of the pond the ice is frozen in shards. Frozen sticks of ice in all directions make the surface textured and ghostly.

Sun through the bare oaks. A landscape of gold and white and mist. Towards the hills, 11 miles to the horizon, the colours are muted ochres, warm bronze and soft pinks. Dark conifers like exclamation marks against the sky.

A white band of mist along the base of the distant hills, then black outlines of the rounded crests, like a Japanese woodcut. Monochrome. Too stylised to be real.

The sky is palest cream, shading to blue.

Bright red Dogwood stems against silver Birch trunks.

The yaffle of a woodpecker. Thrushes near the Dome, calling to each other. One is on the top of the Balsam Poplar. I crane my neck to see it, but can’t miss its haunting song. He sits on the very top branch with the sun on his chest, singing against the clear blue sky.