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