The Season of Truth

A cold wind. Whatever was here has fled inside or has curled up in a corner somewhere out of sight and gone to sleep. Footpaths are tiled in the wet, skeletal remains of leaves and tree trunks have begun to wear their gray winter coat of lichen. There is an honesty in the landscape, the scaffolding that holds form together is no longer concealed by a camouflage of color, the eye is confronted by what lies beneath. Cover withers away to bare ground, the earth takes breath, bathes in the chilly glow of a winter sun. I also come to this place, to this stark season of truth and see myself stripped back to the bones and sinews of me. The wind blows through the same vacant spaces, unpicks the pretense to let a cold light shine through. I don't like what I see.