Bleak is the day,
cold clouds drift miserably
over sodden fields
where hawthorn hedgerows
weep for summer’s passing.

No sun now to warm the soul,
no longer cheer within
the tumbled cot
where ragged sheep stand
and shelter behind old walls.

Collie sniffs damp air,
his  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 whiskey tots to keep away the chill,
for we both know
the Green Man sleeps,
and Winter is upon us.