72 micro-seasons 58...

Janey...

Colour remains in sheltered spots, as autumn leans into winter

Helen...

Night skies glitter and a deadly cold gnaws into my hands and feet. Daylight dazzles white and deepest blue.

Kit...

Redshank and egret lift up from the Solway mudflats - 

a low-slung winter sun tips stars over the water

Jane...

The warm wind plays with my hair, teases off my heavy coat. I undo my woollen shawl and watch the ends dance.

72 micro-seasons 57

Janey...

A cold salt-wind from the  northwest will blacken the tops of any plant that dares peer above the fence

Jane...

It's full moon. An eerie echo hums round the harbour, strummed by the wind on fishing boat ropes.

Helen...

So many colours in the sky and pillowy clouds are deceptively soft and still. But ah, that bite in the air!

Kit...

Late evening. Several degrees below zero. That owl again. A crow outlined on a high bare branch. In the blue-black dome of night, frost stars glint.

Beverley...

The golden beech hedges shudder in the cold rain; the evergreens stand stalwart and true.

72 micro-seasons 56

Janey...

The first cold morning...

Sparrows queue like tiny Oliver Twists along the fence

Kit...

Gloaming, sharp air, hoot of an owl, crank of pheasants, spill of a solway sunset, every shade of fire ...

Beverley...

Blue after the gloom. The absence of wind has passed. Still the roses, cosmos and bright calendula.

Helen...

Twice in one day a hare lopes softly by the side of the road. The first, tinged pink and gold in misty sunset, the second shivering pale under a cold bright moon.

Jane...

Heron glides slowly through dew-heavy air, alights out of sight in woods.

72 micro-seasons 55...

Janey...

Springlike sunshine, yet the wuthered hawthorn where the stonechats hide is bare

Kit...

Round the rusty hay feeder a stare of cows, the colour of crows, conkers and cream - winter feeding's begun.

Jane...

Branches shift, leaves quiver and fall. Clouds fly above us.

Helen...

Dark soft soil seems to welcome the alium bulbs we push down, dreaming of spring.

Beverley...

It’s November and a patch of hollyhocks is in full bloom.

72 micro-seasons 54...

Janey...

Winter whispers in my ear, though honeysuckle still scents a sheltered wall

Jane...

Birds swoop and lift and plough in a grey sky, halt in the thin rust shelter of beech and cherry.

Helen...

At dusk the autumn colours spill into the air, and light itself seems pink and orange.

Beverley...

Blueless, windless days. Leaves falling on breath. The linden tree is bare.

Kit...

Hallelujah for Persicaria, the last raspberry blush of colour in my tangle of floral decay.

'Jeanie'

Washed by salty tears, 

your name yet undiminished

in the grieving heart

72 micro-seasons 53...

Janey...

Unspooling silently across a perfect sky, a skein of wild geese

Jane...

It's not raining but the air is heavy with moisture, rust leaves bright against the grey sky.

Helen...

An October damp softness in the air and nothing hurries.

Beverley...

Half term pumpkin-pickers thread the patch with chatter.

Little ones in new wellies fall over and rise up muddy.

Kit...

Last night's raindrops hang on barbed wire, glass beads catching light in early misty stillness.