One of your family traditions is to listen to a wonderful recording of Dylan Thomas reading his memorialized “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.” Absolutely delightful! There is a section in there about snow. “ But that was not the same snow” I say. “ Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted our of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; Snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure a nd grandfather moss, minutely white-ivies the walls and settled on the postman…”

My recent painting Is an attempt to show a possible home in Dylan Thomas’s village after the snow storm