On the feast of Stephen

This is a time of stillness, the turning moment of the year. It's a time for snow, a time for silence, for reflection and meditation.
Coming back from Surrey in the early afternoon, low clouds covered the peaks of Grouse and Cyprus mountain, soft, smooth cloud, like dry ice rolling out of a cauldron, like the mist that Myrddin created to hide the movements of Uther Pendragon.
Everything waits, the earth stands between life and death. The stone hovers in the air, the final one that took Stephen the martyr from life to death.