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…
The blog and sales portal of an artist who runs and climbs a bit