Forest fantasy

From our northern seaside home I moved to the green, organic city of Sheffield where roads snake through the scraps ancient woodland and the forest fathers sleep beneath the concrete, waiting for their time to come again.

Winter has swept in with the full force of Mother Mature's hand to remind us that we are guests on this planet and our sophistication is no match for frozen water. The traffic has stopped, the schools are shut, the streets are silent. It is as though the years have spun back to the time before the industrial revolution when we lived by the rhythm of the seasons, subject to the power of the sun. In those days we died of cold and some will do so still. We are so small, insignificant.