The pale green grass crunching underfoot is an oddity half way through winter. Frozen drops glitter like diamonds in a multiplied mimicry of the black jeweled sky above. The rising of the pale winter sun leaks wan rays that stir the air sending a haze up across the unnaturally naked fields. January should see the lean wolves of winter race across the land, their voices a howl of wind singing a discordant lullaby for the resting earth. Instead the vagaries of an ill defined term have left us marooned, abandoned on the plane of mud soaked dishabille that greets the dawn of each new day. The hoary dragon of winter, toothless and bewildered is lost somewhere along the path. A damp dementia has clouded the crystal mind leaving will and purpose limp and impotent, a pale shadow of the might that once bore the name.
Divested of cold cover, exposed and abandoned, the sinew of the earth is laid bare and open to the sky. Shivering under an alien light the burnt umber of loam and soft wool of wood tendon border the ochre wisps of sodden gleanings. The hours melt and pool into one endless grey moment as the ground waits to warm or cool, victim to the whim of this sunken muddy season. Don’t look to spring; he’s a distant hero traveling beyond the horizon. We can no more move forward than back. The sails lay empty and slack waiting for the pace of the season to hurry us towards the vernal equinox. Becalmed, even the sharp suffering of purgatory’s expiation would be a welcome change from this milquetoast limbo.