The passing of another year and plunge back into dark nights and crisp white mornings fills me with the inherent (albeit mouse or moomin-like) longing to hibernate.
I should have an affinity with snow, having been born on a particularly blizzardous February night, yet creaky joints and a fear of slippy ground means I much prefer snowfall through the window when I’ve nowhere else to be.
There is something about waking up to a world transformed when there has been snow overnight. The landscape is suddenly limited to a minimal colour palette: black, white, then the palest pink and blue… It is funny how somewhere that can be once so green (that being the rolling hills of home for me) can appear so flat.
Peter Brook is one of my family’s favourite artists, and at this time of year I find myself inside his paintings.
Whilst every natural instinct insists I bundle up, away from the cold, I’m usually unluckily tied to commitments in places unaffected by my particular snow cloud. This happened this week, where everyone’s anticipation of a snow day from Storm Goretti ended in a disappointing Friday morning: arriving at work, it was as though not a single bit of ice remained!
Still, the little hill upon which I reside (much like Peppa Pig) was a snowglobe.
Approaching springtime and the return of all good things (namely light and colour), I am reminded of when I lived in Durham and walked my daily walk to the library to work on my third-year dissertation.
I can’t remember exactly when I wrote most of this poem, but I will include it below.
I wish everyone well as we start 2026 full of the usual mix of optimistic hesitancy. May you hear from me a bit sooner than before.
Brighter days soon!
AS YET TO BE 