When the river froze we would go skating until the thaws came and the river swelled up the banks towards our mother’s garden. You told me that the ice sang when it broke. You told me there was swan song in warmer weather because no matter the beauty of daffodils, of snow drops, of crocus, something was always lost in Winter’s melt. When you learnt how paint moves across canvas and how light falls though lenses I watched you chase though snow and mud to capture every note that crept from the country-side around our home. It was in your work I heard the music.