Two pin pricks of pink were the only colour in the cheeks of the new year. Now, nearly a month on, January’s cold face is suffused with a dull rainbow of pinks. The low sun feebly bathes the young year in muted warmth. Slumbering trees are being tickled into a million nuances of brown pink. Soft light is gently bruising alder catkins purple and pink. Dead grass squirms out of my grasp, a completely unknowable pink. The lake faintly glistens like great granny’s tattered lame` dress at the back of my cupboard. Collared doves sweetly fly through their wedding vows, grey pink and already in love. Rosy diamonds silently dripping through their nuptial bower. And in all this suppressed colour, the dogwood throbs magenta. A violent tangle of dark red stems ignited by the weak sun into a maddening frenzy of crimson and alizarin.