Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

Summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows.

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists

I make no apology about stirring the depths - every human longs to swim under water and see what lurks beneath

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.