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All I can see out of the window is damp grass through fuzzy windowpanes. The sky is dark grey (when there is any light at all) and the air seeps cold and deep into the bones. Not a nice version of winter, and disasterous for the doglet whose legs are too short to keep her tummy out of the mud. All of which makes reading John Clare's crispy little poem all the more sparkling and delightful. Our garden is actually the 'black quagmire', but as we have restocked the bird feeders, and bought an extra one, I like thinking about the frozen plains, the leaves mingled with crimple and frosty twigs all decked out with tiny birds of all types. A 'bumbarrel' is a long-tailed tit, but so far we just have the little guys -- bluetits and coaltits.