Ode To A Winter Morning.

A love letter to my favourite season.

Frost subdues the land each night as I sleep at the moment. It’s there every morning when I rise, glinting in a way that makes it seem as if winter is trying to tempt me to stay inside rather than to venture out. So far it hasn’t worked – not when I have an eager, thirteen year old puppy who is ready for adventure – but as winter grips England in its steadily firmer hands I wonder if snow will be along soon, to hammer home its point; stay inside!

The chill gets harder to ignore with each passing day but I make sure to wrap up warmly enough against it, and little Jess comes pre-installed with a thick fur coat to defend against the weather. She doesn’t notice winter’s encroaching fingers, or if she does, she doesn’t mind it, and remains perfectly bushy-tailed (even as a woman in an enormous Range Rover, which is far too heavy duty for the mild-weathered suburb we live in, pulls up right next to us and her pluming exhaust fumes almost induce in me a choking fit).

Clouds passing continuously overhead glow with a distinct iciness, and as Jess and I continue our walk (now infinitely more appreciative of the sharp, fresh air), my imagination wrests control of my mind and I envision snowy kingdoms way above, with palaces and cottages, and lamps that glow cold…

Before a car horn across the street blares out, bringing me squarely back down to Earth.

The air is sharp and seems to invigorate, though oddly this leads me to thoughts of summer, and more specifically a pair of parrot-printed jeans I recently thrifted, and how excited I am to wear them once the right season rolls around. Right now, I am bundled up against the bite of winter, but I like it that way. Scarf, hat, gloves; the same I’ve worn for the last three winters in a row.

The trees have all turned to skeletons, which might mean they’re not as easy on the eyes as they are in full bloom during summer, but they’re still beautiful. Later, when the sun is setting, its golden rays beam in their dying throes against the spindles, refracting shards of light in all directions before the nighttime can claim its stake over the land again. Don’t you forget me, the sun seems to be saying. Remember, I’ll be shining on you again before long. The bare branches of winters’ trees make sure that I don’t; the majestic scene they help set out is burned into my brain.

There’s something to adore in each of the seasons, but winter’s enthralling sweep across the land will always be the one which grips my heart most dearly. The sun dips below the horizon, and safe inside, I light the fire.