After weeks of endless rain, I woke this morning to blue skies. The only sign of winter is the trees, stripped bare by the biting wind, the bark bleached and ghostly looking by moonlight. A grey wood pigeon is cooing on one of the ashen branches and the sound makes one pause, as it offers to the heavens the only thing it has to give, its song. There is something uplifting in each note as it rings clear in the silent air. Another promise of better things to come.
Winter is losing its grasp.