Powfoot beeches in snow
The woodland at Powfoot is picture-perfect - powdery snow lying inches thick along branches, that lovely scrunching sound when you walk on it - but the cold has played havoc with my son's house up the road. The back of the house where all the water inlets are, faces north so the minus 12 temperature has done what that level of temperature has to do and created ice in his heating system, then the inevitable burst pipes....we are getting to know our local plumber rather well !
2010 Christmas Tree
Today I found some fallen chestnut branches in the woods for our Christmas tree - a little boy from further along the terrace once offered me their second best Christmas tree thinking we only had some old branches for ours - but it looks very pagan and magical when the lights and decorations are on it. It's a ritual by now I can't think we'd like a 'traditional' tree at all.
Snow in Bologna
Bologna, Spring 2006
It was only March, so, no surprise
to someone who lives in Scotland
to hear the grey flakes whispering,
moving diagonally to make
lace on my shivering shoulders,
as we paced the piazza.
The guide frowned, puzzled,
her touch screen had not warned
of non-tourist weather.
Her ‘You must have brought it with you’
only partly a joke.
Outside, the view whited out,
but we walked to a café
and drank thick chocolate.
Later, you slept and I slipped
away, found the museum where
the old instruments hung like
bandits on show.
An exploded lute,
a warped flute,
quarto music books,
a little wrinkled,
a single viol.
I pressed my ear
to the muting glass,
saying over and over
‘Ciciliano, Ciciliano.’
and found it strange,
in that 500 year old air,
not to hear it singing.
much stranger
than March snow in Bologna
2010 bauble
and a snow poem.....
Snow in Bologna
Bologna, Spring 2006
It was only March, so, no surprise
to someone who lives in Scotland
to hear the grey flakes whispering,
moving diagonally to make
lace on my shivering shoulders,
as we paced the piazza.
The guide frowned, puzzled,
her touch screen had not warned
of non-tourist weather.
Her ‘You must have brought it with you’
only partly a joke.
Outside, the view whited out,
but we walked to a café
and drank thick chocolate.
Later, you slept and I slipped
away, found the museum where
the old instruments hung like
bandits on show.
An exploded lute,
a warped flute,
quarto music books,
a little wrinkled,
a single viol.
I pressed my ear
to the muting glass,
saying over and over
‘Ciciliano, Ciciliano.’
and found it strange,
in that 500 year old air,
not to hear it singing.
much stranger
than March snow in Bologna
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