If midsummer is a ballet dancer, a prima at her peak, then midwinter is the solid stage she needs beneath her feet.
It was as if midsummer had stepped through father-time's looking glass, only to find herself clothed in bronzed bracken hues and freshly cloud-given white. For all around in this midwinter, it was as if this land had been frozen still, and time with it, into an evermore coldness.
Midwinter, as transient as any other shower of moments, has the feeling of permanence, as if it has learned the trick of standing still when none other can.
By midwinter the marvel at newly white-puffed breath had given way to a sense of normality, that this icy world was the new stage upon which life spun.
If midwinter hadn't been gifted with so much snow, I would have wished spring to arrive all the sooner. We loved the snow sports. We loved the winter landscape. We loved the fireside conversation. Midwinter was my kind of paradise far more than summer sun.
There is a freshness to the air that comes with midwinter, with the cold, ice and snow.