I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires. ( from Thomas Hardy, The Darkling Thrush)
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Portmoak Moss was bright and extremely cold that day but so worth getting the gloves off, and then getting warm by the “household fire” afterwards. Thanks again for the apt poem.
Blimey, Rosie – that first one – blimey.
And……
“”So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.”
Hope.
Very beautiful & inspiring! Rosies photos always a delight xxxx