It lay across houses and hills. It alighted on pine needles and berries. It washed over mountains and formed on fence posts like waves about to crash – and stopped there, mid-crest.
It flowed like a river of cream down the roads and paths and tracks and cracks.
Laying in folds across neatly stacked fire wood and forming small tufts along windowsills…
It is so grande that it begins to drag on the ground a little. Here the river of cream was pushed back to make way for the cars that are dug out of the hills of sparkling white. Driving cautiously, topped with precarious mounds they dirty the pristine garment beneath their wheels.
Little jewels of light shine from within the postcard houses, the steepled churches, the antique brick cottages.
Necklaces of pointed ice dangles from sloped shingle roofs, beautiful as they are deadly.
The wind ruffles the garment as it passes by. It brushes past the imperial pine trees and small clumps of white shake themselves loose to hit the ground with a dull whump! or a soft pfff.
And the girl from Australia gazes apon Europes winter cape with wide eyes. It coats her hat and tries its hardest to smother the tenacious winter berries.
(Or perhaps they’re flowers?)
She nibbles tentatively on it, humming ‘Glad to have a friend like you’ under her breath. It dampens her gloves.
After she watches it from inside the warm house with her hands wrapped around a mug of chai tea as it she tries to put into words her first experience with snow…
Note: My camera seems to be working again folks, so all these photos are taken once again with my wonderful little beast…