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
despondency,
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.
1993-1996