Dirty Washing

Natures dirty washing hangs the sullen skies, drab grey clouds a weeping, mournful before the eyes. From water to ice to crystal flakes of white, down wards softly drift, to spread a carpet bright. Deep below the blanket spring and summer sleep, in dreams of vibrant colour shall seeds a promise keep. The squirrel in his dray, field mouse in his nest, the Robin bobs for berries with puffed out scarlet chest. Holly and the Mistletoe shed a flash of green, the bird table full of tit bits, a picture so serene. The breeze it comes a cutting no friend of yours or mine, and the drifts get taller like some glacial shrine. And yet country life goes on, cattle herded, sheep are fed, the farmer meanders weary as he tends to natures bed.