“YOU HAVEN’T FELT THEM SINCE THE SUMMER, BUT NOW ALL TEN ARE SHOUTING AT THE COLD.” Out in the yard our walk is instantly defined, underfoot by crisp grass, overhead by a clear sky, and in the air by the cold. I scuff the milky tarmac, he treads black paws, we leave trails, and we brace ourselves for an hour in the company of the cold.
On top of the silvered gate post, split and strangled by gnarly worms of ivy, the frost crusts rust and scalds my fingers as I wrestle the codger closed, rustling as it rakes flakes of tree, and it’s here that I shake hands with and greet the cold.
The droveway beyond is paralysed and bleached, its spellbound ground hard as hell, my feet chiming…
