cold white crisply winter
of an early snowfall,
foot-deep and still snowing;
flakes puffing spiral
onto the settling whiteness
of a climbing drift,
and all the whileaway christmasses
sledge by, rollicking,
waffle-coated, hilltop-slid;
three on one, runners gleaming
steam-crisp breath-clouds,
our boot-clad folk
glove and goggle their way
to freedom in the silence
of a cotton-puff snow.
creepers slowly climbing the old house's side. like the gnarled fingers of an aged human, wrinkled and sly. The still Grecian countryside, pastoral to eternity, mists away through the long rows of lee
5.36 am. Sunday 14 July 1985. Standing in the lee of a gorse bush on the South-East facing slopes of Hill wood, up from the old road. The morning is dank and misty - I can hardly see Sundayshill : the
I stood aside to let the wood flow out. Along legged girl in jeans walked past me, leaves wove in her hair, brown curved beech leaves that cupped the summer in each tender fold. Her hair swung round