As The Driven Snow… a winter run
“The wood, under a winter storm. A time when all creatures thought of good sense seek shelter of burrow or nest. There remains though, dancing through the tempest, a runner, chill of finger, wet of foot, wide of grin.” Desk…
Winter’s Calling
Late November, the dark peak. Winter is home again on these high moors, mewling in with chill-lash days of sleet and gale. With fellhard testing days of hail obscured horizons and roaring, bed broaching brooks.
Winter bicycle, waiting in the shadows. Sheffield.
Sheffield, my home city, a hilly place(like Rome, seven of them, allegedly) a city surprisingly full of bicycles. In winter, as the nights have drawn in they dodge and weave amongst cars and buses and pedestrians alike. Or, like this…