The seasons have been used as metaphor for human life since the first baby was born in springtime.

It is less obvious that places themselves seem to age with the season’s progression.

Winter is the last season, it is old age and the world seems dead, but of course it is not and nature is just waiting for the spring : for the cycle of life to renew and for life to return.

In spring everything can seem blushingly bare, awkward and gangly like an adolescent; in summer it is noisy and confident; in autumn it is blowsy, brash and colour splashed, but in winter, in real winter, when the snow falls, the street and the field and the very sky seem to belong to another century all together.

The traffic stops, the streets empty, the sky is heavy with feathers floating down.

People move only when they have to and the birds pushing through the white air make the sound of wings . The white roofs are Bruegel and the woodsmoke is from twisted chimneys.

The world seems ancient when it snows. It seems infolded and safe.

In a white winter, the creases are smoothed out and a wise unblemished face is turned up to a beautiful blank sky.

9 thoughts on “Ages

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