We are left with autumn. Three black trees bare of leaves. White lights shining like globes through the branches. Paths filled with rain water. The lowering sun turns the water bright yellow. The way through the trees feels blue and cold. There is a row of shops here as the path runs into the street. Yellow lights burn in the windows. The light illumines the white breath of those that walk this darkening road. Above a gun and saddle shop an old man with a white beard plays a tune on a box accordion. It makes no difference to those that walk below, but it stops you dead, sets the hairs on the back of your neck to rise.
Winter sees you on your knees, desperate for the year, its work, to end. This, of course, was when work was plentiful and you had no idea how you will one day, all too soon, come to miss it. You are sent out on an errand. The roads are slick as glass. You follow roads that lead to the green places and the temperature drops and the holiday feeling starts to work its way into your soul.
You wonder if you'll ever get there, the roads being so treacherous. Here is the track. You leave the car. Walk to the higher ground with a bow saw slung over your shoulder. The farmhouse door is plum red. An old lady answers your knock. She can hardly speak her mouth is so crammed with toffee. As you start to saw, the first fine flakes of snow start in their falling. The white teeth of a horse clamp down on the tail of your coat.