It's more the changing of the seasons that I like. There's a beauty in each one. If I had to say a favourite it would be spring, followed by summer. Then autumn. Then winter. But it's a close call. And that's the order they go in. It's a cycle. How ever long and wet and dark and cold winter is spring is lurking deep underground. Waiting. Hibernating. Everything shades of grey. Black and White. With moods to match. Until bright green pinpricks appear through the gloom. And you know everything is going to be all right. And then you start to feel the sun on your face. And you crawl out onto a rock. Shed your winter scales growing soft through spring. And you allow yourself a smile. The shoulders thrust back and you stand briefly only to flop lugubriously onto the scratchy green glass. Eyes scrunched. Forehead damp. And when you've just got yourself comfy a cool wind begins to dry your brow. There's a blinding flash of golden colour, all reds and yellows. Before dissolving before your eyes into brown and you know it's only a small step to the brown and the sticky mud. And then the air takes on a bite. A crisp crunchy apple from the fridge. And each night before you go to bed. Head buried between a mountain of blankets. Where the only light you see is from a pale sickly yellow flickering bulb. And you pray for snow. Anything to break this monotone. And just as the fingers of despair are plucking and tugging on your thick, heavy coattails you raise your head from your aching neck to ease your curving spine and there in the distance you catch a glimpse of bright shiny pinpricks appearing through the murky gloom. And you think to yourself. Yes. Everything is going to be all right.

The snow squeaks under my leather boots and the sun flashes off the yellow bottoms of my vibram soles. It's normally just splish splash through grubby slush stained black like a smokers lung. So to see this. Soft babies blanket settling over everything bringing purity and a crisp clarity to this scene makes me smile and gasp. And I can't stop smiling. What is it that makes it so beautiful? The change? The sun reflecting, everything sparkling? The little fresh buds growing on the wicked barbed wire? The sheep don't want to go far from their food and it brave it out standing firm as we pass. Me and my dog. And she's all bounce and roll. Sniff and snort. Until her paws get cold and holds one up and I crouch and melt the ice between her toes with my hot hands and she licks my fingers and looks into my eyes, cocking her head to one side as I say "shall we head for home"? It's just the same as having a kid. No difference. And when we arrive back she montarily wobbles onto shelves she shouldn't be on until she flops down onto her sheepskin, noses under her fleece blanket and doesn't move for an hour. Exhausted from running and shivering and just the newness and fun of it all. And I eye up the quarter bottle of wiskey while I sip at the black coffee which makes my glasses steam up. But then wanting to keep this clarity I clamber into bed heft up my 2666 book as thick as the logs waiting to be burned in the log fire and start to read. And I smile. And I can't stop smiling.