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.
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