The Frost performs it's secret ministry
Unhelped by any wind....
Rust is ripeness, rust.
At the very bottom of Dangerfield, where the slope melts into the shadowy wooded copse...over my shoulder the red tiled hat of the Lane with it's chimney stack poking smartly skywards.
Makes the corners of my blue lips turn up when I see it perched up there.
The frozen tufts and the shivering oak at the top of the hill.
Behind the Cowshed, old junkery looks patinated and beautiful in its crusted finery.
A wreath of barbed wire takes my breath.
Anyone fancy a go at this wiry cat's cradle?
The bracken in the field margins, all crusted, rusted, frosted and dusted.