Quietest in the white expanse of winter, Waiting, watching, the landscape open to my sharp eyes. A pin dropped in snow would make more noise Than my perfect, crouching form. I mark the crows as they flit across the sky, Warm memories of summer stalking in the hedgerow. My ears flicker to a distant voice, As you walk up towards the farm. I will glide over the crisp snow to rub around your legs, You and I, both finding our way home.
This poem goes with a large acrylic painting that my Wife Lucia sold for me yesterday. Margaret, who bought it , wanted to hear the story behind the paint.