Graeme Williams

The Ice Sculpture

Daniel had walked little more than a mile from his caravan when he reached the snow-crowned marshes. He laboured across the covered land, bringing his knees up near his waist in order to make a small step forward. The snow tumbled in over the top of his boots and soaked his socks through to his skin. He fought to palm an opening through the clenched branches of brumal trees. Though stray twigs pierced through his gloves and spiked at his hands he proceeded and, eventually, reached the fishing ponds. The dark bark of the surrounding trees was brushed with the gentle frost’s glitter.