The idea of ice has always captivated me. Equally enthralled by its danger as much as its beauty, I’ve always been seduced by its off-putting allure. The way it forms simply from water and air has been a source of wonder and amazement, rivaling the most beautiful blooms of the garden at the height of summer, challenging the most exquisite perfume from a flower at the onset of dusk. Ice makes the gardens of winter sparkle and shine – the balm of something beautiful in the face of danger and darkness.
Such visions deserve their own song, here in a piece by Andrew Souter. Entitled ‘Melting Icicles’, may it portend the spring to come, even if that feels far away, even if the winter has only just started.
One relies on hope at this time of the year, because one cannot rely on beauty, especially the beauty of ice. The briefest thaw will decimate the pretty scene here, as will a relentless drying wind. Ice isn’t all-powerful – it’s probably one of the most fleeting of nature’s beauties.
And so when I see it, and it’s safe to be out and about, I will pause to appreciate it, like a rare bloom gone by the end of a hot summer day. Winter holds its enchantments differently than summer in some ways, and remarkably the same in others.
