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Very slowly, an ancient civilisation reveals itself from the tundra Very slowly, an ancient civilisation reveals itself from the tundra
(6 months later)
The thrush has given up on singing and hunger guides its ice-pick head to the few open patches where the tiniest of lives can be tweezed from stones and snow rinds. Little avalanches slump and rumble from the roofs as jackdaws stuff nesting twigs down chimneys. Icicles drip as the sun rises. Violet-blue snow is chased through with flashes of syrupy sunlight. It's still cold and there's more snow here than during winter proper – even with the clocks jumping a heartbeat into summertime. Where? It may be beautiful, but people have trouble coming to terms with an occupying weather that refuses to make terms with them. Settled white lawns are boot-deep. Heaps around cars and pathways are like archaeological excavations.The thrush has given up on singing and hunger guides its ice-pick head to the few open patches where the tiniest of lives can be tweezed from stones and snow rinds. Little avalanches slump and rumble from the roofs as jackdaws stuff nesting twigs down chimneys. Icicles drip as the sun rises. Violet-blue snow is chased through with flashes of syrupy sunlight. It's still cold and there's more snow here than during winter proper – even with the clocks jumping a heartbeat into summertime. Where? It may be beautiful, but people have trouble coming to terms with an occupying weather that refuses to make terms with them. Settled white lawns are boot-deep. Heaps around cars and pathways are like archaeological excavations.
Very slowly, an ancient civilisation reveals itself from the tundra. The vicar walks down the lane, barefoot as usual, and stands before the gate of Wenlock Priory, bemused that it is locked. Five hundred years ago that image would have been impossible to imagine in this place on this day. Over the wall behind the pine trees, jackdaws fly around the priory ruins in their Benedictine black. Theirs is the only observance – theirs, and lambs in the field opposite huddled like refugees in muddy patches, and wrens darting between ominous shadows in the hedge. Suddenly, and as silver as an airplane, a peregrine falcon flies over the coppice north-east. Up in a young ash tree a grey squirrel hangs over a branch like a destitute sleeping on a doss-house rope. Is it daydreaming or dead? Only the tatty end of its tail moves in the breeze. At night a great yellow moon swings through a black glass sky into a new year, sacred and cruel, sliding above eight-foot snowdrifts that the road cuts through along the Edge.Very slowly, an ancient civilisation reveals itself from the tundra. The vicar walks down the lane, barefoot as usual, and stands before the gate of Wenlock Priory, bemused that it is locked. Five hundred years ago that image would have been impossible to imagine in this place on this day. Over the wall behind the pine trees, jackdaws fly around the priory ruins in their Benedictine black. Theirs is the only observance – theirs, and lambs in the field opposite huddled like refugees in muddy patches, and wrens darting between ominous shadows in the hedge. Suddenly, and as silver as an airplane, a peregrine falcon flies over the coppice north-east. Up in a young ash tree a grey squirrel hangs over a branch like a destitute sleeping on a doss-house rope. Is it daydreaming or dead? Only the tatty end of its tail moves in the breeze. At night a great yellow moon swings through a black glass sky into a new year, sacred and cruel, sliding above eight-foot snowdrifts that the road cuts through along the Edge.
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