First frost and time to rescue the beautiful fat sloes from the clutches of the wicked thorn bushes that have given them birth. Their blue bloom is perfect until we smudge them with our cold fingers. The dog, four now, flushes a pigeon from cover and realising that it's injured, his tail rises mercilessly. I am blooded by the thorns and the dog sniffs for that too, though he is less excited. His breath is white. My finger throbs and beads with glistening incarnidine. Winter clutches my face in its fingers like a school bully, pressing hard.
I'm glad. The long slow autumn colours have grown tired and I crave the pure and bloody tones of winter