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.
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