Bright rays of sunlight beamed down from a cloudless sky onto the cottage, heating the thickly thatched roof until the rafters below cracked. The sunlight dazzled off the white wash walls of the tiny building. Summer swallows perched on the roof and pecked at the thatch. Many a nest had been made in the thick straw roof that spring.
Summer flowers bloomed along the winding path and picket fence membrane. The garden was overgrown. Dandelions sprouted up everywhere. Thrushes dived for snails hurrying to the shade. Hollyhocks bobbed slightly. Their heads were laughing as if sharing a private joke. Long grass grew wildly, and had started to push its way through the peeling white paint of the picket fence.
A light breeze brushed through the thick, fresh grass in the meadows beyond. Cows mooed in unison with each other. Children jumped stiles and carried homemade fishing rods toward the stream. Carp and trout glided aesthetically through the gentle current. An electric-blue kingfisher flew swiftly over the surface of the stream scanning the water’s blue veil for Dace.
So, as seasons pass and temperatures change, the land is transformed into white wonderland. Winter threatens the animals like the snap of a snare tightening around a rabbit’s neck. Many seclude and sleep the winter out. Others migrate and fly south for the winter. Others can only lie in wait, shivering and trembling in thickets and hideaways waiting for the day when the spring grass pushes through the snow-ridden fields and glades.
Mosses covering the chimney of the cottage become frosty and white. It is a magical time of silence. The weeds have disappeared and moonlight beams down casting black shadows darker than the hellish depths of a devil’s coven.
The landscape is bleak and barren. Crystals of ice formed on each blade of grass. The only sound that can be heard is the gentle warbling of the robin as he hops along the snow casting tiny footprints. A barn owl sits on the gatepost as white as the full moon glaring over the platinum land.
The lake is frozen now. The fish below, trapped in their icy prison. The kingfisher has gone and taken with him all the spectacular summer colours. The smooth surface is desolate and untarnished. Bare branches stretch outward over the glacier like scene; they are as black and evil as clawing hands. The hands are reaching out for life; stretching for a lifeline. Denied.
Smoke rises slowly from the chimneys in the distance. Fires rage and the occasional tractor chugs down the dirt track, passed the barn owl, to a happy home where slippers and a pipe are waiting, along with the house chores.
Silver stars shimmer above in the ebony black sky. They hold the Christmas hopes of young children dotted around this harsh countryside. Clouds pass over and the moon disappears. Shadows shift. Shapes change. Ears prick and eyes dart.
A late squirrel scurries across the fallen snow. She holds three acorns in her mouth. Speedily, she darts up a tree to join her family. Her journey was a treacherous one as foxes lurk in the shadows waiting for any unsuspecting squirrel or rabbit that might cross its path. Life is fragile at this time of year. They must learn this dangerous coalition.
The cottage deteriorates after yet another year of extreme, roasting summers and cruel, bleak winters. Pipes freeze, cracks emerge, and frames become infested with bugs and spiders. This is one fairytale cottage will not rekindle from the thorns, but will lay dormant for years and years on end at the mercy of Mother Nature.
Andrea Thomas 10.5
