David Abbott


The sweet sun rises blood orange to my left, the soft moon falls amongst pink clouds over Horfield common to my right where the soft fingered winter trees brush the sky and some kind of sacred tune carries on the air. From left to right this feels like my tarot being read. Past. Present. Future.

Long days later the same stretch of path is exhausted in weird balmy weather. The dog is covered in recently thawed mud - work to do. Running the line of trees a gang of long-tailed tits and among them a goldcrest, my first of the year and probably the last and certainly the smallest bird I'll add to this years' list of seen birds. The biggest was a golden eagle the day we scatter-tubed dad's ashes into the northern waters of Calgary bay.

Midwinter's eve and the sky is tobacco stained. I am doggedly listening to Christmas music, stuffing it in before it comes to its sudden halt in five days time. Winding down to the end of the year, winding up for the next.

This afternoon I read that Ursula Le Guin described us all as having unexplored forests in our minds. This has resonated strongly enough for me to screen grab the quote as we step towards a seasonal point of renewal. What needled paths await, what clearings to find. Suddenly and unexpected I tingle with hope, the feeling finding all my ends and edges like the light and warmth of a growing glowing candle. Take a breath. Hold it in. For now it is enough to pause at the edge of Christmas, where the music, weather, and bare countryside all anticipate bedecked festivities to come.

Happy midwinter.

December 20, 2022

Filed under