Snow

Drawing the curtains aside, and a white world greeted us.  Lucy had to be pushed out gently, but soon jumped around with joy in the snow.  It will not be here for long, too warm and there is rain on the way, but welcome for transfiguring the world into black and white for a few hours.  The tracery of branches against the sky, the dark comforting bulk of the yews, shelter for the birds.  The shrubs outlined in snow and that little buried body of Lucy's toy.

I am grateful for my sight but it is slowly going, so what do I do? Accept it, or go through the whole rigmarole of doctor and hospital.  Perhaps it is time to give away my books and tidy my workroom and accept what is inevitable.

The yews are a very comforting tree, the guardian of the church yard, a dark green presence, almost black at times, but its red berries will lift the gloom of the colour, though as we know poisonous.  Wordsworth on the yews at Borrowdale.  

Yew-Trees

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,