A weak winter sun, anaemic and wan,
devoid of all warmth, listlessly shone
on fields fresh frosted with nighttime’s hoar,
masking all traces of animal’s spore.
The crunch of farmer’s boot on ground
and the caw of the crow the only sound.
Misted breath in knife sharp light,
forms miniature clouds to watery sight.
As the mercury plunges swiftly South
and crystals form on moustachioed mouth,
the son of the sod does his daily round,
hauling fodder over stone cold ground.
Tending his charges, fair weather or foul,
in summers drought or winters howl.
‘til all is safely gathered and stored,
a job well done his just reward.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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