As parts of Thetford’s landscape prepare to change, a local writer reflects on the passing of winter, renewal, and the moments we sometimes fail to notice before they disappear.
Perhaps there is something fruitful lying within the depths of Winter, something we can recognise as we lose it to Spring. It is a fleeting moment. All that was once dead, shimmering with the frozen morning dew, begins to blossom once more. Life begins to emerge. We are awoken early with the blackbird’s tune praising the morning sun that welcomes us each day earlier than the last.
The sun begins to linger in evenings too, wanting not to say goodbye after observing days filled with all such new life and beauty. Winter just passed is quickly forgotten. We forget that which felt as if a permanent death of the new life bestowed upon us. Here the fruit grows.
Nothing is permanent; it all withers come the winter month, yet the renewal of such things each year and the flow of such is permanent. It must die to live; reminding us the beauty will return. It is the eternal pattern of such a cycle.
But we must also ask what part we play in such rhythm? We are keen to put to the back of our minds that we rot such fruits of winter. The winter we now face is far more permanent and does not rest between Autumn and Spring. It is one of our own creation.
The buds will not bloom again, the days will forever feel shorter and no life will long to emerge from hibernation. There will be no place new life longs to dwell; there will be no new beginning. The pattern falters, all that was once living will die and remain dead. Culled by the biting frost of our eternal winter.
Yet we will remain. In acceptance of such a winter we will choose to sacrifice human foundations favouring a tomorrow set in stone.
Spencer Hornsby
