Dusk, In Winter
The sky becomes a deepened blue,
like army coats of yore,
clings to the trees atop the hills,
settles on valley floor.
The sun is gone but dim lingers
upon the rolling fields,
they seem endless done up in dark,
with secrets unrevealed.
The snow glows, just three inches deep,
reflects the rising moon,
some bits of grass still reach above,
but they’ll be buried soon.
The corn stubble is taller yet,
gives all a mottled look,
brown on white, in the morning times
it’s overrun with rooks.
A deep is picking though it now,
a yearling, and a doe,
I see its silent stride and I
wonder where it will go?
Probably to the hill just west,
beyond which is the town,
it’s rocky there, with thick forest,
a good place to bed down.
My foot crunches on crusted snow,
the winds have made their mark,
they’re predicting a storm next week,
so this is just the start.
Head home, passing the darkened barn,
with animals sleep,
I will be out in morning’s chill,
giving them hay to eat.
It’s not the nicest time to farm,
nut this job never stops,
at least the skiers will be glad
the temperature has dropped.
Copyright ©
David Welch
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