Snow and Buried Dragon

Woke this morning to a light powdery fall of snow; opening the window at 3am, the top of the porch rooftiles were dusted with dry snow.   By 10am it was wetter but the air was cold and dank, long-stored air, air from underwater; it felt old, used, stale.  I had to grit the top of the lane, where it joins the B-road in a very steep incline, and the view across the valley was grey with frost and light snow, literally hoary.  

Christmas shopping in Ludlow; mistletoe and fir branches for sale in the market, the soft fall of taken fir trees; braces of pheasants hanging outside the butchers' shops, a Dickensian sight, these narrow bands of birds across the shop fronts, the incredible beauty of their feathers; plum-reds and deep blues, brown and chocolate, breasts mottled like freshly-shaved nutmeg.  I found a moment to say a prayer in the church, St Lawrence's, tall and Perpendicular, a high high roof.  A cold morning, grey and wet, misty trees and ice in the ditches.  

Yesterday we went to an exhibition of tree photographs in Bleddfa, a local arts centre. Excellent photographs of orchards and distances and gnarled trunks by Gareth Rees-Roberts.  I also wanted to take a picture of the church door; narrow and wooden, studded with nails against attack.  The church is one of a number surrounding the Radnor Forest which are dedicated to St Michael, celebrated here for his powers against dragons.  The last dragon in Wales is supposed to lie asleep - imprisoned? - under the bare hills of the Forest, and the ring of medieval churches keeps him caged.  A wash of myth and faith and politics and hope.