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.
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