The moon had ridden a clear sky all morning but when I woke at seven there was a bank of cloud. I walked out into the farmyard incase I could see even a glow, but no. And then I found out why. At last, it began to snow. Real, fine powder snow, like snow from when I was a child and before long there was two inches of snow. ( Everyone knows that snow is meansured in inches).
For a while it stopped, and then began again.
Luckily the wood man had come from Welsh Logs. He had chains on the wheels of his pick up truck. I had been worried that we would have no logs before Christmas. We had burnt through so much as our only heating is the wood fired stove.
On the wall by the door, a broken plate by Martha Allen.
Hanging in the garden, a lantern.
Max looking after the logs.
Moonjar in snow.
Now there is a kind of hush broken only by the whisper of bird wings and the swirling fall of flakes.