It's been freezing cold and after a couple of milder days it's getting cold again.
I'm trying to get into the festive spirit but it's not so easy. I saw this variegated holly on Sunday and stole a picture of it.
In some ways I prefer the traditional dull green, especially for Christmas. But it made a change seeing this in the winter sunshine.
And I was reminded of the Seamus Heaney poem 'Holly';
When we went to gather holly
the ditches were swimming, we were wet
to the knees, our hands were all jags
and water ran up our sleeves.
There should have been berries
but the sprigs we brought into the house
gleamed like smashed bottle-glass.
Now here I am, in a room that is decked
with the red-berried, waxy-leafed stuff,
and I almost forget what it’s like
to be wet to the skin or longing for snow.
I reach for a book like a doubter
and want it to flare round my hand,
a black-letter bush, a glittering shield-wall
cutting as holly and ice.
I think you would probably have had to have gathered your own berryless Holly to understand that!
(a don't stop till you drop production)
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