The US is frozen. Ice and snow have claimed the land. The continent groans under its weight; the people slide along its surface.
Meanwhile, the UK is underwater. Floods upon floods upon floods upon floods. Entire counties held hostage by rising currents and grey skies.
I know all of this is bad. It is a symptom of our planet's disease, and only we can be blamed for the infection. It is global warming's repercussions in the now, not the future. It has caught too many unaware, lost too many homes, disrupted too many lives. It's a tragedy - an overwhelming, intimidating, accusatory, rallying-cry of a tragedy, and I can only hope it's the missionary that will convert us from complacency to action where our fragile climate is concerned.
And still. It's beautiful. Really, truly beautiful to behold.
We took a little jaunt, my love and I, to visit a lake that we've only addressed as our old friend River. The Severn has no banks, no restraint; it frolics over towpaths, resting on benches and defacing the signs. It kicks and sprints and curses and cheers its way across playing fields used to a different kind of sport. It stops in at nearby pubs to marvel at hardened regulars and herd them slowly home.
Bundled up warm in our flannels and wooly best, we watched it gurgle and scheme. Lovely with light. Giddy with freedom. No small task to coax that wild thing back between its banks.
Troubling though, that I post this to the rhythmic patter of still more water...
shearling coat, quilted patchwork flannel and boots: all vintage
tank and beanie: free people
jeans: rag&bone denim