#christopher leach

Light leaks; layers the early eastern hills

Butter-yellow and fresh-squeezed tangerine.

Breakfast colours. The cold skinny breeze fills

The space between birdsong with wild green

Scents: Fynbos and firs, precocious perfumes

From hedgerows hued in blazing blue and red.

A premature promise of summer blooms

Before the last frost. When frozen and dead

These petals will carpet the trail toward home,

Marking the certain seasonal parade,

A farewell to cold. An end to the poem

That was Winter. As dawn’s grey starts to fade

I stop to look back on the path I have trod

And offer myself to my Creator God.

 I have to confess that I have never been a ‘winter’ kind of person. I believe that many of the reasons for that have to do with growing up (as we are forced to do) in South Africa generally and in the Eastern Cape specifically. Here our summers are hot and long and our beaches even longer. Endless expanses of sand. Dunes that define half the horizon and an Indian Ocean the other. My childhood memories are slide shows of summers that never seemed to end. Bare chested, blonde and bronzed, I seem surrounded by boats and boards, sunshine and spindrift. Moments of melted magic that define and defy the dates of a season.

There are many sayings attributed to Augustine of Hippo. There are many that I remember. One of those is this; “The world is a book and those who don’t travel read only one page.” I took this to heart and, with the privilege of a passport, followed summer through forty countries. I have the visa stamps to prove that for 8 years I never left the heat behind. Winter was always a world away. Well, half a world really, but that sentence sounded better.

And so I sit here jolted by July. Layered up in thermals and fleece. A scarf so thick, it would support a cervical strain. Beanied and brittle…and it is nowhere near zero. Any self-respecting Scandinavian would shake their head at me. And I understand why. I have Christmassed in the Cold Countries. Seen a New Year dawn (rather late I might add) in the Swedish mountains, where, not a cloud in the sky, a low slung sun made a cameo appearance, to illuminate a thermometer that read -22˚C. Actually thermometers don’t read minus twenty two. It is more of a sarcastic ‘you aint seen nothing yet’ kind of burp.

“Aaaaah. But don’t you love the mesmerizing ballet of flames performing on a stage of coals? The waves of warmth that pour forth like an incoming tide from the heart of the hearth? The romance of getting romantic in front of that fire?” I can hear you. And yes. There is a fragile kind of appeal to these idiosyncrasies; if winter was a witch. But she can keep it. I choose to admire the miracles of snowflakes from a distance. I choose not to choose double glazed windows and worries about frozen pipes. Ice has a place. Two cubes in a large measure of Laphroaig. And that’s where I prefer my peat. In the glass, rubbing up against that ice. Not burning in the fireplace.

But life is fuelled by contradictions, and on flipping through a folio of dated poetry, my own I might add, I came across an ode to winter. I lie. It was a sonnet. It still is actually. A sonnet I mean. And it was…is ‘A Farewell To Winter’. Something I find myself wishing right now. And hence the opening gambit of this post.

The good news is this. June 21st is behind us. The days are getting longer. Fact. The bad news, is that Southern Ocean spawned frontal systems - synoptic savages - guarantee we haven’t seen the worst of this winter. More’s the pity.

I know that I got ahead of myself, but I offered that poem for your perusal. And let me add this. If you want some really, really, really Good News. Capitals Intended. Pick up your Bible. And read it.