Snow Cutting 63
I’ve
climbed the highest ladder
repaired frost damaged stone slab roof,
sat on top of telegraph poles
digging snow on Daughton heights
metamorphosis into maturity, was this proof?
I’ve
froze in seventeen degrees of frost
my spade glistening in winter’s feeble sun,
trespassed in mantles of unsoiled splendour
placed each doubtful step in trepidation
an enterprise into humanity, begun?
I’ve
straggled the coping stones of Eastby
probing for living fleece and her offspring,
trudged many inhospitable moor
where crow or robin dare not fly
only the composed in artic harmony, sing?
I’ve
slipped the rigorous reigns of commotion
spent hours working sun drenched drift,
lived the high sanctity of God’s work
Appletreewick, Kettlewell and beyond
amidst his fame, submerged in his precious gift?
I’ve
deemed all this an accomplishment
simple fare to many a humankind,
to rove the newness of fallen snow
the first imprint honest and profound
a silent lifting, of a conscious mind?
© Harry J Horsman 2001
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