Vossavangens Winterwolrd
"Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius."
says Pietro Aretino, but when the sun sets at 2pm, as if giving up on a bad job, or appears only as a light on the other side of the fjord, just “like” would be enough of a verb.
But winter is undeniably beautiful, those days when a pristine, piercing world greets you, when even sounds freeze in their tracks, the mountains weep icy tears and lakes lie like fallen mirrors; their hidden world visible as you press your face on the clear glassy surface and look down.
Rivers turn into Fairy Falls, edges fuzzed with mist, gradually falling ever more silent, their sweet-talking tinkling fading as the cold grips harder.
Summer is laid on hold, only traces remaining in the hopeful café chairs that stand frosted in the yard.
But winter is undeniably beautiful, those days when a pristine, piercing world greets you, when even sounds freeze in their tracks, the mountains weep icy tears and lakes lie like fallen mirrors; their hidden world visible as you press your face on the clear glassy surface and look down.
Rivers turn into Fairy Falls, edges fuzzed with mist, gradually falling ever more silent, their sweet-talking tinkling fading as the cold grips harder.
Summer is laid on hold, only traces remaining in the hopeful café chairs that stand frosted in the yard.