Grey day

day barely day

cold wind slicing the grasses

puddles iced, walking with caution

ears and fingers freeze.

I puff on my hands.

Cold mist

clings to the hill side trees,

no sky at all, dull light

draining colour from the land.

Deep in their roots

sycamores sleep

bare twigs clutching at the wind.


Hull down in hollows

sheep are motionless,

backs to breeze

shrammed heifers stand like statues,

where no sun rises

hoar frost lies on the land.


Down a hedgerow

evening Blackbird squawks


Crows pass lolling on the wind

watchful, waiting.


A time for ghosts

howling down the whitened hills

maddened in the grey freeze.

Deep in my hearth now

frosty fire tongues leap

at the coming night.