Haze

There are many kinds of haze. For example in the recession of the fens on frosted ground, where bright light comes as through milk on a glass left half rinsed. A woodfire burning through the milk-mist is strikingly whiter and although it must surely be denser than water vapour in the air, seems more fluid. There is a boundary between the bright hazes and fog-haze where the light is more than half taken by the moisture in the air, leaving it stained with gradations of grey. The frost-picture on this page was taken before dawn at minus 12 and that grey has blue-shifted by some process that I can only assume is a property of the acres of tiny ice crystals that flowered on every surface. 

As haze deepens, the weakest lines cannot fight it. The glowing seed-heads of the pampas grass lose definition early, followed by the still-lush grass. The sharp, partly yellowed swords of our tough weed-iris keep their shape as the conifers fade to brush strokes and outlines. The thorns of the bare sloes fight a long time and when they are gone, only the bare trees remain all the way to the horizon where I could make out the definition of a willow three miles away and a black poplar further away than that and not just in outline.

Then there is haze which develops in the eyes, not in the landscape. Light, for example, on a sharp autumn evening, fast and low across your face, like looking through badly scratched glass. Distant rain crossing the horizon in fine lines the texture and colour of the edge of a piece of fine china, freshly broken. The haze that softens the fens after sunset, though the treetops are still crisp. A freshly wet field of grass lit by low sun, sparkling as the water runs off a million stems, as if the water is still splashing on the ground.

The grain of the planed earth, freshly ploughed.