After several days self imposed incarceration, I woke this morning to thick icy fog - enchanting and too tempting to resist. Crossing the fields into a dense whiteness I headed for the top farm, marveling at the fairyland effects of a thick hoar frost.
Bitter woodsmoke mingled with the icy freshness of the mist as I neared the shrouded buildings, where lambing ewes moaned and droned from the warm safety of a barn. Finches, tits and chaffinches were threading nimbly through the sparse hedgerow, their dainty flight interrupted by fat, fuss-bustling blackbirds. A fragile white sun tried in vain to break through the pearlescent opacity as I passed scattered cottages, tempting smells of bacon drifting across my path.
Turning back to the village, a sad sight for a winter morning...a young badger, dead in a ditch. They are often found in this stretch of road, their instinct for a time hallowed crossing spot not tempered by the arrival of man's swift killing machines. But life surges relentlessly on, and already tender new leaves of honeysuckle are creeping through lichen crusted hawthorn twigs, despite the intense cold we have had recently. Church bells tumble from a nearby church as I pick up my Sunday Times and head home to eggs, toast and the inevitable pot of tea.
Bitter woodsmoke mingled with the icy freshness of the mist as I neared the shrouded buildings, where lambing ewes moaned and droned from the warm safety of a barn. Finches, tits and chaffinches were threading nimbly through the sparse hedgerow, their dainty flight interrupted by fat, fuss-bustling blackbirds. A fragile white sun tried in vain to break through the pearlescent opacity as I passed scattered cottages, tempting smells of bacon drifting across my path.
Turning back to the village, a sad sight for a winter morning...a young badger, dead in a ditch. They are often found in this stretch of road, their instinct for a time hallowed crossing spot not tempered by the arrival of man's swift killing machines. But life surges relentlessly on, and already tender new leaves of honeysuckle are creeping through lichen crusted hawthorn twigs, despite the intense cold we have had recently. Church bells tumble from a nearby church as I pick up my Sunday Times and head home to eggs, toast and the inevitable pot of tea.
7 comments:
These are lovely: soft, atmospheric. I love the strong colour of the lichen against the quiet winter background.
Beautiful images as usual Gretel, both photgraphic and written. I'm sure your toast and eggs tasted all the better for a frosty walk.
It was a bright and sunny day here, no frost, just blue blue sky, but bitterly cold.
Your camera seems to take much more beautimous pictures than mine. :-) Or maybe it's the camera operator! Always lovely shots, Gretel...
I love these photos - they're just so evocative!
Cathy xxxxxx
Lovely pics Gretel ... I love the way the world appears at this time of year and your pics have captured it so well!
-Gail XX
I'm so jealous of where you get to live!
You have been very complimentary about my poetry - perhaps more than it deserves. Here I can return the favour, for this whole post is great poetry, words and image combining so evocatively. Makes me sigh for the Cotswolds and dream of return :)
Post a Comment