The lanes run like rivers

Early January, Lostwithiel, Cornwall

The lanes run like rivers and I flow with them down the hill. Big drops plop into puddles and the tributary lanes run into the main road, flowing brown with field wash and fallen leaves. My hood is as cinched in as it can go and the drip drip drops beat a light percussion onto my head.

The way home is bright though. A road sweeper has made an immaculate line along the verge into town. Clean now after the morning’s wash. Pennywort is abundant in the holloway and already there are snowdrops here and there and the slender stems of daffodils too. The sun dresses a warm light across the afternoon and I stand at the top of the sheep field on the stile and close my eyes into the sun and the wind. The days are already getting longer. On the track to the farm house just a few oak leaves still cling to winter branches, now turned a pale, beautiful gold. Last week’s gathered bundle fell from my pocket, so I gain another. Already where the leaves have fallen are tiny buds of new growth, reminding me of the ever continuing cycle of seasons and renewal.