Snow fell at dawn, transforming winter trees. Ethereal and rare, they assumed a lightness of being. Catch it while you can, it's seldom seen and cannot last. As the morning temperature rises feathery layers of snow crystals compact and begin to melt, swags tug free of branches and fall to earth, pitting the snow beneath the trees.
By afternoon, trees showed sombre and sturdy once again.
By afternoon, trees showed sombre and sturdy once again.
By late morning a cold, wintry light gleamed off snow on the horizon. Let your eye track through conifers to the light. Reflections on an icy Blea Tarn. These images remind me of Paolo Uccello's The Hunt, a study in perspective. All the while this magical transformation of trees was disappearing as snow crystals melted. There was no ice underfoot, only a fall of fresh snow.
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Becks drain off Lingmoor, off Side Pike, into a sump where bog myrtle and bog asphodel thrive in marshy ground fringing an icy Blea Tarn.
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