My world has shrunk to a whirl of white. This morning the hawthorn hedge was a sculpture, the stone walls grey and white, the valley had disappeared and the view from the gate was a soft grey smudge. This afternoon even the hedge and the bakehouse are disappearing into a whirl of falling snow and these pictures seem clear and sharp, when the world now is a blur of falling white. A tiny wren has taken refuge under the eaves of the house by the unused front door. I can see the peacock's tracks silting up with snow, gently being obliterated.