The Terror Time

This is the death time.

Slush falls on roads, slippery underfoot and chiling to the bone. An ambulance blares past, not yet time for morning coffee. At my destination, wind gently moans in the pylons, a dead heron lying in the mud below the power lines.

The death rate spikes at this time of year. I always thought this was a recording artefact in the official statistics, that those who died at Christmas were not counted until the week after, but no: the deadliest couple of weeks are coming up.

For the wildlife of Scotland - and for those without reliable shelter - it's 'The Terror Time', as per Stuart Cassells version of the Ewan MacColl song:

For those of us with our health and home comforts it can still be a cosy time, typing a blog post sat in front of a fire drinking fine Burgundy, for example, and planning a hill run in the morning. 

And nature is not static. Things die. But under ground, other things are biding their time. The snowdrops, those wonderful, cheerful first flowers of the season, are already in bud.

2025 may start in Terror; but may it lead you to Joy.