How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
~ William Shakespeare from Sonnet 97
We woke to thick flakes of snow falling on Sunday morning, and a white layer soon started to cover everything.
By the time I had got my act together the snow had turned to freezing rain and the dim light was fading further under a heavy blanket of cloud. Still, I felt the need to suffuse my stale blood with fresh air, clear my mind and stimulate my muscles, no matter the rather unappealing prospect the environment was making it.
It’s amazing how even on the coldest and dullest of days there is inspiration for a muse – if she looks for it.
Winter can be a tough time: reality sets in alongside the Christmas credit card bills, piling on worry with the extra woolly layers and the battling of virulent, seasonal germs, whilst rousing sluggish motivation.
Even Tchaikovsky agrees we should be warm and snug in January! Mind you, I’m sure Russian winters must be way more brutal than English ones. By the Fireside is the title of January from his 12 pieces of The Seasons, Opus 37. Richter reflects his sentiments on the ivories:
The days are short days and the nights, long. Everything seems to be focused inward.
It’s like we are curled up in a metaphorical fetal position, taking comfort from an enclosed, but secretly nourishing dark space, all growth shielded from view.
We dig deep, perhaps drawing on inner reserves to see us through this forlorn time. Nature too, is hunkering down, despite her wintry displays. It seems to me that the stark scenery and empty trees are a sign of mother nature baring her soul to us, her naked branches giving us a sign that we too will flourish again.
Already I have noticed the days are drawing out in small increments.
All traces of snow were gone today. The sky was blue and the sun hovered like a low, bright disc, surely brightening all ragged spirits.
Winter certainly has its unique charms, when everything is stripped back and thrown into sharp relief, but they remain so because of their temporary time span. That is indeed, the magic of all the four seasons.
A Winter’s Walk
Trees and birds are silent while relentless rain holds court,
A rhythmic, yet random patting against my hood, hypnotising,
Lazy lungs expand with chilly, desolate air, as breath is caught
Coalescing with mist, hot and swirling: my efforts rising,
Icy droplets numbing face, nerves sparking, fingertips tingling,
Under a darkening, dreary sky, life and death are mingling.
The hushed landscape wears a sparse cloak of glory,
Insulated feet stumble, eyes explore meadows, trees and bracken
To discover pockets of beauty, embellishing winter’s bleak story,
A silvery sheen coats soaked ivy leaves – refusing to blacken,
Precarious droplets of watery diamonds hang, almost suspended
From bare and spindly branches; my hibernating heart is mended.
I feel alive as winter reveals its cool, contrasting shades;
Mulchy leaves decorate slippery, muddy trails and stumpy grass,
Ghostly barks shimmer amid the muted inhabitants of glades,
Translucent pools occupy smooth hollows of holly; green glass,
Wet wings carry birds across exposed clearings; swiftly to go
Beneath nature’s cleansing tears; dimpling patches of snow.
Life holding life in abeyance; abundance in perfect stasis,
As unseen activity unfolds within death’s enveloping hands,
Humans eagerly anticipate spring’s invigorating, energetic kiss,
Warming damp, weary bones and awakening purged lands,
But subtle beauty lingers, in the wild depths of decay,
Winter’s test of faith and spirit never does betray…
I want to lose myself among elevated regal trunks,
Their rough and knotted surfaces standing proud,
Witnesses of earth’s creatures, and striding hikers, lifting funks
Their swaying whispers soothing senses; a welcome crowd,
My body feels cold, but my soul is wandering free…
Home beckons: promising shelter, and a hot cup of tea!
By Virginia Burges
If we want to embrace winter, both the challenges and the beauty, Vivaldi evokes the musical themes that will eternally embody such sentiments.
‘L’Inverno’, Concerto for Violin and strings in F minor, RV. 297 by Cynthia Freivogel and Voices of Music:
You may like to be reminded of a true romantic bard’s words on the subject with the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley – Ode to the West Wind
Yours in wintry wonderment! Ginny
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” ~ John Steinbeck