The world abroad has the aspect of abandonment, hibernation and dormancy.  Whatever once lived there has either left or lies asleep in an alternate state beneath the ground. All but clumps of earth and spiky vegetation have been muffled by snow. The deciduous trees are denuded and rise from their roots like mournful patterned fans. Flakes of snow continually and gently flutter from the grey frosted sky to the smooth white earth. The cultivated fields illustrate an incomparably precise line of narrows in the ground, wending up and down to the distant horizon. Above is a dome of placid uniformity with only the muted glare of the sun occasionally perceived.

The opacity of the sky inspires one’s own remote reflections, contemplation of the quiet tranquillized memories now long gone and out of sight. Wisps, like the sudden brilliance of the sun through dents in the map of grey, of recollections sometimes wildly estranged from the present, in another world, at another time. Then light breaks and the snow covering the fields near and afar becomes a mirror of exuberance and universal platitude, augmenting the parallels upon the ground, highlighting catalogues of trees in singular line to the river’s edge. An old neglected shed camouflaged by its whitened roof, nearly smothered by the rampant weary vegetation of its matching tawny colours.