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winter

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Here in the south east of England we don’t get very much snow – and when we do it doesn’t usually stay very long. Canadian readers and those in the north of the UK will probably snort derisively at this point, but the Kickass Canada Girl and I currently live in the land of the ‘soft southern jessies’ and that is just the way it is. Anyway – as a result we get pretty excited when the snow lasts a long time, as it seems to be doing at the moment. I trust that you will forgive me, therefore, if I post a few more snow snaps!

 

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

I rather liked this instance of Pepper’s Ghost… candles in the snow!

Photo by Andy Dawson Reid

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“The color of springtime is in the flowers; the color of winter is in the imagination.”

Terri Guillemets

Photo by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson ReidPhoto by Andy Dawson Reid

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidShould auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind…

Rabbie Burns

At this point – as the final full stop punctuates the ultimate paragraph on the page of 2012 and the leaf turns wearily to reveal the blank sheet that apprehensively anticipates the first words of 2013 – it is quite natural to take a last long look back at the events and happenings of the past twelve months before turning our anxious gaze once more to the future. Have we – by this reckoning – achieved those aims that we set ourselves at the outset of the year? Have we grasped the opportunities that have arisen unexpectedly since then? Can we – in short – feel satisfied that we have filled each “unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run”?

Well – maybe not entirely, though it is hard to imagine quite what else might have been done. This has certainly been a year in which the unexpected has trumped all carefully considered stratagems – in which squalls and tempests have blown apart accustomed weather patterns, both literally and figuratively. Of the specific aims and ambitions that we had ourselves formulated at the start of the year few now remain – having been scattered to the far corners of the earth by the rough winds of events – and yet we survive intact, as do our long term dreams and intents. There is yet much to learn from the experience.

I am not much of a one for New Year resolutions – those inflexible tenets that rarely survive intact the icy blasts of winter. We do – however – clearly need to re-focus our thoughts and to re-discover our ‘mojos’. This will probably take some time as we accustom ourselves to our new circumstances – and as the dark decurtate days of winter slowly give way to the renaissance that is spring. This tradition of mirroring our own development to the rebirth of the year through the change of the seasons is as ancient and timeless as the land itself and I see no reason to tinker with nature’s tenacious tutelage.

One thing I must do at this juncture, however, is to express my humble and heartfelt thanks to all those friends, family and acquaintances who have helped, supported and succored us both through this last year. Our gratitude is undying and we will do our very best to repay your kindnesses as we may.

All that remains is for me to wish you all a very Happy Hogmany.

“A guid New Year to ane an’ a’ and mony may ye see”

 

 

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Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee

Whether the summer clothe the general earth with greenness or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw

Whether the eve-drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast

Or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles

Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

Frost at Midnight

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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“It’s mornings like this;
The stingy sun trying to hold back
Even the warmth of its reflection
Flashing coldly in the lake.
When November leaves drop in sudden gusts,
Like a red and yellow flock of birds
Swooping at once to ground.
Or even nights:
When winds reach wet hands
To take you spinning with random paper
Down back street gutters, under straining bridges
To clogged rivers.
It’s this:
The time of year, along with spring,
When poets must take care
Not to sing the same old songs
Stolen from tribal memory.”

Thomas R. Drinkard

In my opinion – humble or otherwise – November is quite the grimmest quantum of the year… far worse than Eliot’s ‘cruelest month’. There are entire days on which the light struggles helplessly to elevate itself beyond a Stygian post-apocalyptic twilight, and the dismal rain lashes the last few leaves from the traumatised trees to besmirch the sodden earth like eviscerated corpses smeared across the battlefield of the dying year.

The shortest day is yet a month away – and our subsequent celebration of ‘Sol Invictus’ has scarce reached the planning stage. Like the dormant green shoots themselves all thoughts of spring are still lodged securely underground – safe from the winter frosts. They will not expose their tender heads to the chill air for many months yet.

The Michaelmas term is always the longest – and the toughest – of the school year. The aim is to crack the preponderance of the curriculum before the solstice break – to form a platform for the anticipated achievements of the new year. The cause is noble, but the casualties are heavy – in terms of exhaustion, langour and ennui.

There comes a point at which one is just counting the days – and at such times, indeed, ‘poets must take care’…

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