The fractured ice marked the winter months of this lonely place like a talisman. How many people had passed by this small nameless pool on these cold pathless hills and stopped to wonder at this secret mystery? How many people had seen the fantastic bent forms of curved ice, seemingly beaten like steel into fantastic shapes. Ice as preserver and destroyer, frozen life and frozen death. Ice as a lens to focus the shy pallid sun that hides behind cloud and hills. Ice as the tracks of the Winter that will melt away before the warm winds of Spring but not easily, not before it’s time.
Friday, 4 March 2011
Posted by Chris Walton at 05:57