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Snow White Winter

The mud grows, the sunsets glow inky peachy. The sun sits in the tree with cold cream outlines. Creation and elimination, a winter road, a long road going down alone, a month of epitaphs and gaps, a month of emergence, seeds from fruit flesh, bare branches from trees, single trees from the wood, skeletons from leaves. A trashing time cutting things back and holding only pieces. What's left behind? The bones of trees, the ghosts of insects. By day the sun is a white hole in a tissue-paper sky; solitude is the first door above ground - dewdrops on trees reflect bare branches - swirling greys and maroons in ploughed chalk fields - flash rains bank leaves into cliffs - swans are floating white lights in hoar frost - stones sing like high-tension wires across ice -rabbit burrows sparkles as frosty geodes - trees by street lamps are jewelled with ice drops - missel thrushes throng berrying hollies. The last crab apples on a tree are Christmas lights, the last hazel leaf is a torchlight in the wood, fleeting in the wind. The leaves fall, skedaddle golden brown, they glitter as they fall. When the leaves fall the last leaves appear purposeful, threaded as if placed. You remember the leaves that went before, the golden leaves, the golden memories...