Someone said to me recently how boring and drab winter is in England. Growing up in Australia I am always amazed at the way winter pares down the landscape in Sussex, throwing up new shapes that summer foliage obscures and casting the world in that crisp steel blue light. Warm blooded life seems that much more precious and winter spaces make me reflex how everything that is living will die – making life feel like its made of fragile spun glass.
Below is the bright rude health of yellow Mahonia, flowering early this year, the rust patterns of a fire bowl left out in the rain, Xmas rose and of a recent frost that was as think as a crust of snow
