Winter snows and McGregor

Beautiful snow in McGregor. On the Riviersonderend mountains. On the Langeberg.  A breathtaking sight. The vineyards in the foreground, rolling hills, snow capped mountains. Best of all, the soft, soft light.

The seasons are very marked in our village – one of the main reasons I chose to live here. The spring is heralded by wild flowers to rival Namaqualand’s display.  Climb a hill in early September and find yourself overwhelmed by an unbounded sea of red and orange and yellow. Then drift into a Mcgregor Summer when the shimmering white unsteady light and soaring temperatures  hustle one  indoors for long siestas. Then  Autumn, and that first moment one feels the sudden chill in the air, and the fruit trees  begin to  surrender their leaves at the thought of rest.

As the years go by and we learn to embrace the cycles of nature, we  become aware that we ourselves are becoming  men and women of all seasons. That the heart and soul are cultivated by the seasons of our life – some gentle and carefree, some  abundant and fruitful.  Others stark and challenging.  Each is  treasured in its own way especially  if we have  become the poets of our own existence.

 Winter for many  of us is a time to hibernate and be more tender towards ourselves.  More time making log fires and reading. Box of chocolates on the side table. Or a glass of vintage wine.  Not only staying indoors but retreating inwardly too, what the indigenous peoples of North America would have called ‘going beneath the blanket’. This is the time to pause and reflect, to keep oneself warm. Maybe write a poem?  So go ahead.  Put the dog or cat on the bed, make sure you are comfortable, and revel in reconnecting  with your less busy self.

Reading Boris Pasternak in winter has almost become a ritual for me. Maybe memories of a past life in snow swept St Petersburg……….

‘Snow is falling, deeper – deeper.

Maybe, with that same stride

in that same tempo,

with that same languor,

times’s going by’.

Hope to see you at the McGregor Poetry Festival in front of a log fire, red wine in hand being enriched by poets and poetry.

With love

Billy