Frost encrusted branches and evergreen ferns adorn
The murky decayed path beside the mist shrouded marsh.
Beaver dens rise ominously from the blurred water’s edge like ancient burial mounds.
The gossamer vapour curtain slowly rises to reveal the landscapes’ textures.
Swirling messy grasses, craggy branches and brittle leaves clutch twigs.
An obscured mountainside is somberly unveiled and comes into sharper focus.
Hues of winter wheat and gold are exhibited alongside soft green mosses, and
the tan and brown tones of the earth interrupted by the occasional black are a balm
that soothes my heart.
An assembly of ducks glide effortlessly as if on glass, while in the misty middle distance elegant trumpeter swans herald in a weak sun to give it strength.
An ice rainbow appears; a perfect arch of light complete in it’s absence of colour
And a busy woodpecker invites close observation oblivious to the imperfection of man.
Perhaps I’ve stepped through The Wardrobe.
Or am I in Avalon?
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