Blank as an unwritten page
Snow fell on the towers of Camelot, fluttering to its terraces and paths. All the fields were flattened like a white dining cloth spread out a table. The woodland paths were a wonder of whiteness, blank as an unwritten page waiting for a pen to push its nib across it, trailing black. Children slid on paths, skilfully slipping, or shivered while they warmed themselves by a fire, clapping their hands to drive the chill from their chapped fingers. There was a winter tournament that season at Camelot.
Winter at Camelot. Sir Gawain and the Green Maiden
Image: Cardiff Castle from Bute Park