Hoar Frost

At the moment we are all living in a monochrome world of snow and black silhouettes of trees against a grey sky, the snow in Chelmsford is not so deep as in other parts of Britain, the news on the radio grinds on and I worry about the garden birds... but four years back I went on a magical early morning walk with my Moss up on the downs near Bath and the world had crystallised into a magic place, caught on camera that early morning the soft pink of the rising sun illuminating the fairy trees, so perhaps not wishing the cold on people that hoar frost brings in its wake some photos, and a poem by John Clare. 'Hoar' can mean 'aged' or could be taken from hawthorn which is covered in white in spring.

The Hoar Frost Lodges on Every Tree

The hoar frost lodges on every tree

On the round hay stack and the rushy lea

And the boy ere he fothers behind the stack stands

A stamping his feet and a knocking his hands

The shepherd goes tucking his hook in his arm

And makes the dog bark up the sheep to the farm

The ploughman though noisey goes silently now

And rubs off the ryhme with his arm from the plough

Kop kop to his horses he sings and no more

For winter grins keenly and singing is oer

Save just now and then in the midst of the day

When hoar feathered frost is all melted away

Then larks from the thurrows takes sunshine for spring

And mounts oer his head just a minute to sing

And cleaning his plough at the end of the land

He'll hum lovely Jessey and sweet Peggy Band.