High land

A few flakes fall in puddles lined with grasping ice. The suggestive horizon is sown with white as train carriage F is pushed and pulled past slateless steam sheds.

The verge is loaded with lightness as gorse bows in reverence, fern fans flatten in curtsey unmoved by the wind tunnel snow dust steel on cold steel.

River worn gullies, stooping saplings, broken branches.

Hazy birch tops huddle in rare beef steak smoky slabs of colour slicing through the greenest stone green of wedged conifers pierced by painted leafless larch spires of burnt sienna.

Meringue souffles top mumped grassy meadows. Apricot cast on white, rising above tree tracery. The solid forest stands with arms outstretched for enlightenment, knowledge on darkness. Half grace, half density.

A grubby palette of ochre and white reaches for the cleansing of the sky. This may be the closest that we can get to purity, the surface of the moon but for the clarity of reason. The brightest blue.