Topsy Turvy

 Casting an eye over the heather bank shouldering the path I saw no bright blaeberry green and wondered at how these plants have retreated, burrowed into the soil, traceless. All is struck dumb at snow`s intrusion. I hear spring birdsong and feel icy fingers. Running to the junction of three roads I stop and look up towards the Minch Moor. Hills and block-forests, grey and white patterning, veiled, like shapes under tracing paper.
It`s spring yet you might perish from cold should you slip and twist an ankle on those high, lonely trails. The seasons losing their bearings.