I walked through the Dene, early in the morning when the world was just beginning to wake, and the frost was thick on the ground. The time of deep silence, the stillness that only comes with winter cold, has arrived in the Dene. 
Some green still remains. Mossy tree trunks sparkle in the wood, and the last green of the snowflake tree is touched with frost. The oak ,as ever, will be the last to shed her crisp curling leaves. The cold North wind whispers through the valley, bringing the scent of winter tales around the fire and the smell of new snow.