Amanda Tuke - workshop co-leader and Great North Wood nature-writer-in-residence.  Once covering a large area of south London, today the Great North Wood consists of a series of small green spaces – all of which provide a home for nature within a modern urban landscape. The workshop was made possible thanks to public funding from the National Lottery through Arts Council England.

From a December garden near Southampton

Snap, crackle, pop! Twiggy branches trashed by size seven boots which continue scrunching on frost stricken leaves. Wrapping paper over dank, bleak earth, still weighted by late wet and shivering now, under a raw north wind, oblivious to the low, milky sun.

Helen Weber. Busy in retirement: budding artist, writer, gardener and lover of all things green; recycling nerd, and Greyhound mum.

Rocks, trees and moor muted in tone by moist vaporous overlays, everything greyed out, soft focus. The all pervading dampness has penetrated my boots, chilling toes whose crackling tracks vanish into white. Each breath comes as mist and drifts away, integrating with the atmosphere. Insignificance and oneness blend together.

Cliff Eastabrook is a performing artist specialising in storytelling and music as The Travelling Talesman.

Small diamonds of ice clutch to a blade of western wheatgrass, catching light from a mottled December sky. The frond is weighed down by the crystallized burden, but remains buoyant still. Strong, unbreaking, and awaiting the relief of an impending thaw.

Lena Beck - Lena is a freelance environmental science journalist who writes about aquatic ecosystems and loves to look at moss @LenaJLBeck.

Snow of hard cold peaks

creeps along granite gullies

slivers of white

lacing edges fray

Transformed in secret evergreen shade

Softer falling

slowly riverwards

to tumble together

excitedly rushing onwards

carrying sharp memories of bitter frozen peaks

I touch the water and am transported

myself involuntarily icy

rigid as rock.

Jo Coffey loves words and nature, and takes joy from playing with them together.

PHEASANT

Not ice, just a crust of frost baked mud, rutted with the memory of rain. Warmth forgotten, beaten down by broken bracken, distant snap of dog frozen in the air.

Helmeted green, duck sleek and red eyed, hop-strutting towards us. Wise guy this one; canny enough not to fly.

Sarah Hill Wheeler. Erstwhile lawyer, aspiring writer, frazzled mother. Sometime Londoner, returned to my rural roots. Now often found outside, with a double espresso, talking to hens. Twitter: @hill_wheeler

A magpie perches on the naked apple tree, searching for grubs hidden

in the tightly folded buds. Its head is no more than a black smudge,

its tail a scribble, its belly already dissolving against the grey

sky. With a raucous caw, it lifts off into the winter’s afternoon.

Angi Holden has been writing most of her life, most recently at a desk so covered in leaves and feathers collected by her grandchildren that it resembles a nature table. @josephsyard

There's nothing barren about this bare winter. Cold peacefulness is found in an opal sky, marked by faint cirrus clouds. A brushing of winter feathers. The piercing caw of crow splinters garden silence, demands hierarchy; every branch his throne. Surviving leaves quiver in the aftershock of vibration. Crow grates again.

Nina Lewis. Nina is a poet from Worcestershire who enjoys writing about nature and place @Neens07.

A Wintered Retreat

The birdsong has thinned, harvested by the recent freeze. Only the broken gargle of pheasants now, and murmurings scribed by the bone-bleach breeze. Voices which may not be human. Words unclear. A blackbird startles away, distressed, disappearing into the scant leaves. The rising mist ghosts us all.

E. E. Rhodes is an archaeologist who lives in Wales and Wiltshire. She writes a range of prose which is published all over the place.

There is no ice this year: the western wind’s too warm. No snowy footprints, either, telling tales of wildness and wonder. Only a soundscape marred by human imprints: distant vehicles, an orchard chainsaw…my presence itself a trespass, met not with birds’ songs, but by their escalating cries: Alarm?... Alarm! …ALARM!!

Tessa Grasswitz grew up in England, but currently lives in the USA, working as an entomologist and celebrating nature through art, prose, and poetry.

Water in two forms here: frozen footpath puddles, a languidly flowing river. Willows whisper, footsteps shuffle, cycles shiver past. Gulls overhead evoke summer’s seaside songs, momentarily dispelling winter’s thrall. I am chilled, but my senses are honed. I walk beside the Mersey, slipping on ice and I embrace it all.

Based in north-west England, Jennifer Jones writes passionately about soils, birds, and landscapes.

Iced breaths wisp away from me in the pre-dawn glimmer. In the distance, the wheezy rattles of crows back a shouty robin. Is there a quiet flutter before I see the incomer? A dunnock - preening in our leafless crab - ticks me off with tail flicks and a sharp alarm.

Amanda Tuke is a writer, botanist and birder. 

Sun squawks. Winds hush. Tis the season. White lush. Thickets form: billowing towards the sensitive fingertips of year-round members. “Look, mam! Can’t you see the cold shooting up?” “What, dear? See with my eyes?” “No. With your feel.” Young fingertips slot into the aged grasp. “To keep warm,” he explains.

Lee Eustace is based in Dublin working primarily on collections of poetry and fiction that centre on the themes of relationships, social constructs, and the essence of being a twenty-something.

I walked with my mother on a winter’s night.

Caught in a snowstorm without warning she gripped my hand tightly. I felt her fear creeping.

And a sense of the streets being deserted.

Her silence as loud as the white flakes.

We trudged like distant figures on a Christmas card.

Rachel Foster writes emotively about the unpredictable nature of the environment and is based somewhere in damp Lancashire.

A pale moon hangs above sharp edged mountains

Colour and sound are muted by a frosty layer

Nostrils tighten with cold air

Ears strain for creaks and crunches

Skin pulls taut across cheekbones

The frozen stillness intensifies

Tiny crystals glint, the air sparkles

Snow crumps, revealing a footprint

Kate Stacey lives in Cumbria, between the Pennines and the Lake District fells, which inspires her writing about landscape, weather, and wildlife.

Delicate white filigree lace shawls adorn their boughs

Winter tugs at their roots

Balls of root feet

Snug deep in snow

Soft satisfying crunch of my snow boots

Slice through the silence
 

Behind

I leave soul footprints

Playful breathy vapour ghosts

Floating in the crisp cold air

I was there

Gloria Maloney writes creative prose and poems about the Essex countryside she enjoys walking in.

Midwinter walk.

My foot crunches the stories of a morning.

Neatly layered hours,

snow on snow,

now compressed into a size 8 pancake of ice.

Who came first? The robin? The deer?

Waterproof boots edit events,

have the last word until…

Snow on snow,

my footprints disappear

under the duvet.

Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. oddsends707138946.wordpress.com

I have traversed these woods before.

My breath, a foggy mix of warmth and cold.

Sun glistens on snow-clad trees.

Blankets of white against rock and trunk.

Snowdrifts everywhere.

Scattered tracks of fox and field mice.

Blue sky sheds its cloak of clouds.

Beauty and stillness.

I linger in awe.

An avid birder and nature lover, Annemarie Marek writes about the wilderness and wildlife of the high desert surrounding Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Stillness all around

Walking through a vintage Christmas card

Grass covered by a snowy blanket

Under a witch’s icy spell

I’m the first footprint

Alone but not lonely

This moment is mine

Breathing new life within

 winter has me as its captive

My path is unclear, but my head clearer

Ruth Holloway loves animals and nature and writing and is based in Coleraine in Northern Ireland.

Melting hues of ochre meld with pink; blinding my line of sight as crumbling footprints fade away. Fantastical midnight blue clouds encapsulate the surrounding atmosphere; invoking a magnificent, mystical song of wind and stars. Blistering breeze, crackling trees, crumpling leaves all give way to the new dawn. Enlightenment awaits.

Lauren Latouche-Charles loves writing stories and drawing. She wishes to also go stargazing someday and explore the world to its fullest. @halcyon_celestial (instagram)

The Shortest Day

The witching hour: Nature raged – wind slashed limbs; rain pelted earth. Blush and

cornflower swept the horizon. The orchards wore crispy white. The slumbering

peach trees adorned with iridescent jewels stood proud. A single court aches for

him. Tangerine kisses the sky – The Sun King returns.

Bonnie L. Boucek. Fibromyalgia. Creative Life Coach. Author & Reverend.

Saturnalia and solstice, when nature seems frozen. I live where mid-winter linnets used to lunch. Where do they do this now? In the nearby woodland fruits are desiccated, little creatures hunker down, fungi retreats. But on this still morning leaves tinkle beneath my feet, and I spot a fox’s footprints.

Paul Gamble walks the woods, watersides and uplands of these islands, writing about their joys and challenges from his Oxfordshire base.

Fresh, crunchy snow covers the park. On the hill, people in cosy jackets and bright scarves slide down on trays, sleds and plastic bags. I lay down, bring a soft snow angel to life. The city is quietly transformed, the mundane magical. A wonderland without restriction, accessible to all.

Fern Marshall is a writer based in Edinburgh focussing on urban nature and mental health, she can be found on Instagram @fernmarshal

Marvelling at hoarfrost flowers edged into windows. Venturing out wrapped like miniature polar explorers, scarves tangled, soggy mittens, moon boots crunching on dense snow. Savouring the smell of frost. Catching snowflakes on your tongue, taste gone in seconds, but never forgotten. Who does not miss their childhood winters?

Antje Ayala-Torales, originally from Germany, loves exploring the small outdoors in London's beautiful local parks and her garden

Summer is nice.

But it’s not that first icy gulp of air.

Or the chatter of fieldfares plucking berries.

Or the glimmer of aurora over the sea.

It doesn’t line the vein of each leaf with crusted silver.  

It’s not snow, slush, drift, powder, flake or icicle.

It’s not winter.
 

Rebecca Gibson is a wildlife writer and photographer based in north-east Scotland