Everything
that ice has touched has changed. The long mud puddles in front of the house
are ice bridges over trapped water, the water presses bubbles up, the structure
of the bridge is compromised. There are heel shaped holes where Boy has tested
it earlier, on his way to school. He has prised an ice circle from the top of a
wide bucket, there is a plastic bowl full of ice trapped in the circle of ice,
it’s beautiful and quickly vandalised by the jealous sun. But the sun on the ice in the fields
lights each crystal up, I walk, Dog runs, the ground beneath sparkles like
precious stuff. Over the frosted leaves her paws make a crunch like the sound
of a giant eating a bowl of cereal. I see snow on the moor peaks, the
mysterious towers of granite, and the sky is heart-liftingly clear. Two
aeroplanes draw lines in it. I am not dreaming of faraway places this morning,
I am living in one.
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