Bleak is the day,
cold clouds drift miserably
above sodden fields
where hawthorn hedgerows
weep at summer’s memory.

No sun to warm the soul,
no cheer within
the tumbled cot
where sheep now stand
a-sheltering behind old walls.

Dog sniffs damp air,
his collie breath steams and curls
as we secure the gate and make
our long, sleet-ridden
way homeward.

Tonight we shall sit by the fire,
he and I, dreaming
of snow-white lambs,
cornflower skies and
warm, sunlit meadows.

Meantime there’s crackling to chew
and drink to keep away the chill,
for we both know that
the Green Man sleeps,
and that winter is upon us.