Tag Archives: the poet Shelley

Are you suffering from January-itis? Have some winter magic on me!

I do not recall when I last felt so afflicted by a bout of  the above.

Daily – late afternoon lethargy as the weak North-Western daylight dims. Annoyance with the snowdrops for being so reluctant to appear this year. Stating to The Husband that I was a moany-faced old git, and not having him disagree. Fed up with those admirable space videos with shouty captions telling us how infinitesimally minute we are, therefore entirely without any right whatsoever to moan about anything at all.

Still coughing somewhat, a long six weeks after THE WORST COLD EVER. Totally, utterly bored with wondering what I would make for dinner today… and every other day for decades. Discovering, today, a Facebook file I never knew existed containing messages going back to December 2013. Cross with myself every day for not being more grateful for almost every way in which I am a deeply fortunate person.

And yet – I find myself always able to be responsive to those moments of magic that life weaves into the dreary tapestry of January.

Today, having my first ever Facebook videocall – all the way to India – with my brilliant nephew, a person whose insatiable curiosity about EVERYTHING and  bibliophiliac habits are probably worse than mine. It was just great to hear his fresh, first-hand impressions of that astonishing continent, and reminded me of the bright face of modern technology.

And – last Saturday – being granted the grace of capturing some images of pure winter magic as the snow, just for a day, turned our grubby rain-soaked city into wonderland. Enjoy some of those photos, as we cold and grumpy Northern people gradually turn our faces to the blessing of  Spring. As the poet Shelley so beautifully put it in his great Ode to the West Wind:

“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”

Kibble Palace, winter twilight

Kibble Palace Glasgow UK: snowy winter twilight

IMG_2797 IMG_2798 (3)

photos: Anne Whitaker 16.1.16

300 words + images copyright Anne Whitaker 2016
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