Treading the grey forest of my childhood's dreams
where, melancholic under ghostly beech,
metallic hollies stand around
and frost crisped leaves rustle
to disclose wet humus unfrozen on the ground
the sudden discovery of a half iced pool
reawakens old moods under a carapace of time
The dusk is burying the snowclad heath
and frozen air chills cheeks to flame the face
before the waiting hearth
wind clapped branches suddenly feather snow in air
and puddles, wholly ice, lift like plates from moulds
The wild beats of pony hooves ring like a bell the hardened land.
Here in the fawn twigged woods
with the rare squirrel and the straggling tit flock
hurrying to glean last morsels from the naked twigs
old perspectives emerge among cold sentinels
empty trees netting the tide turned sky
Visiting the winter forest is like
rising at six of a Christmas morning
shivering down a cup of tea
walking the snow muffled streets to the cold church
for a piece of bread and a sip of wine
the fire below the altar suddenly
taking blood red berries home
1970. Revised from 1954?