.. or a hedgehog because I’d like to be allowed to hibernate
until the spring arrives.
* * *
I’m not very fond of winter; the decreased light causes me
to transcend into an almost permanent state of melancholy – sinking within a grey
that is as gloomy as a December sky.
* * *
Poetry always seems more difficult during these bitter months,
more elusive, and so I tend to read more than I write. There is something
comforting, idyllic, romantic even, about reading during the winter: curled up
next to a radiator, losing oneself in pages, as the wind growls at the window.
* * *
After moving from Coventry aged nine, I spent the rest of my
childhood growing up in a Bedfordshire village on the outskirts of Leighton
Buzzard. Winter in this village and around the surrounding area was beautiful.
The nearby country park was a mix of coniferous and deciduous trees; firs that
would be peaked with white after a flurry and nude oaks painted in morning
frosts. There was a lake, which – if the temperature was cold enough – would
freeze solid and we’d skim stones across its hardened surface. Each bounce
creating a delightful chirp that would send out a chorus of echoes into the
browning bracken. And it is that sound, the sound of stone on ice that makes me
more forgiving and tolerant of the winter months.
* * *
In a playground we’d puff out our breaths, pretending we
were grown-up as we waved around invisible cigarettes above our heads.
* * *
As the snow turns sludgy, the last-made snowman is grubby
white, imprinted with twigs, grass and mud. But you’re still proud of it.
* * *
E . A . R . M . U . F
. F . S.
* * *
[Probably the most fragmented blog post I've ever written]
Thank you for reading,
Lara