I love winter. The bare trees splintering the moon in their limbs. The dark blue rinse of evening. The pristine tracks in fresh fallen snow. The winter smoke rising off the sea like a benediction. Black crows shuffling apart on a snow-dusted branch.
I just hate driving in it and shoveling it. I love the poetics of snow. Not the reality of it.
Damn, summer trees are monotonous in their glory, whereas winter trees are like open books — full of adventure.
I’m not wishing January away — or even February, but I’m longing for spring. I’m just luring spring like a lover. It’s the romantic Welsh in me. I grew up on a hill with a view of goats and the poet’s chair, high up and unreachable for a small child chained to his pram.