Blow blow winter wind
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
wild-eddying swirl in her sharpened face
and, bleached, fresh buds of white hiding place
moving on softly line to line
The half-stripped trees and this pale air
hides hills and woods, river and heaven,
I, zip my farm at the end of the garden.
I agree there is some sweetness in its white cruelty
so, maybe one day it will be
a beautiful place
Until then, the echo is still
devoured by a frosty meadow languor
Perhaps one day it will be
such wonderland place
a crisp of winter’s night’s
coated in white shirt sewn from a black cut.