Old Snow

Gutters are bending, everywhere dripping, patches of snow pattern the ground in blocks. It is tricky to walk without slipping on the old snow trodden. Booted, my socks drop to my heels as I follow the wall where the snow still lies in decaying drifts. Sheep scatter, regather, look at me, all grubby grey in the white as the mist shifts. I stop, lean on the wall, my socks adjust, pull up my collar against the rising wind. Winter landscape now no longer hushed by fresh fall of flakes so lightly lying. As the old snow thaws I now slip on mud and downstream rivers will threaten to flood.