When the mist rolls in from the sea,

and the thick necked bull bellows his frustration

at the lowly cows in the pent up barn. 

When barren ewes, busy as caterpillars, crop the field,

and the chestnut mare with its frayed red bridle

comes to the wall to be scratched or not.

As the busy green tractor scampers about its dusty patch,

the early swallow twitters from the wire and

high stepping wagtails, in Newcastle strip, patrol the wall,

l sit propped by cushions in the redstone room, 

listen to the hissing of the logs in the grate, 

smell the roast of coffee on the stove, 

hear the distant thrill of the peewit,

the trill of the lark, the yellow chink of buntings 

and write melancholy metaphors

on the hopeful poignancy of spring. 

 

 

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