St Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold: The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Great poem by Keats, very apt this morning as there is a hard frost, freezing fog in the valley and just the faintest sign of Dawn’s rosy fingers emerging. If the sun ever makes it, we will have glittering alpacas with frost on their backs.