Abuzz

A coughing chainsaw;

The lesser spotted woodsman,

Quiets the chiming birds.

Tall Beech

Slanting spring sun on bare boughs,

Breaks buds,

Draws sap,

Wakes bugs.

Washes away winter's sleep.

Walking a week of easterlies

Alternate frost and sun have curved and pierced the undermined ice to translucent brandy-snap, on grass-blade tenterhooks, capping the criss-crossed natural hollows of the heath.

I creak and crackle this brittle confection with each uncadenced footstep, sometimes sinking through the shattered carapace to silty mud.

The hissing of the wind through cold-desiccated brush and the rough scrape of dry heather and thorned bramble on denim build symphonically on the boot duet of crashing and splashing, and separate songs of early birds proclaim their needy counterpoints.

Dipping and striding, jumping and balancing across the thicker ice, I rise towards Marlpit Oak to face the unsheltered onslaught of that easterly breeze.

White Noise

Heedless of a forecast that offered, if not permission, then at least excuse, frozen flakes hang embarrassed in the air, like celestial dandruff. They come in negligable numbers; not yet an invasion, but an expeditionary force, scouts and spies sent out to discover the potential warmth of any reception. The wind whips the flakes and specks in all trajectories from down to up, making the mean descent sideways, but without much resolve. Ridge-tiles, trees and telegraph wires are outlined by a uniform grey. Brighter than at mid-winter; not yet threatening worse to come. Unreadable, like a blank stare