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Plough on through the darkness, knowing that winter days are numbered.

Besides, there are song thrushes now, and if that’s not hope then I’m stumped. In a rush of sleet and bitter wind, the days begin to peel back and reveal themselves a little more with every passing night. I hear a thousand geese in a broad stack of stars; there are snowdrops in the verges and buds on the honeysuckle.

High up against the cloud, a raven rolls over on his back and wears the world as a hat. I wonder how we seem to him in the pitch of inversion. He looks up to me beneath him; a small pin in a board of rushes and marshes and myrtle and bog; trees hang down towards him and tremble like bunting.

We’re at our wit’s end, but we’re almost through.


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