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.

Bleak winds scour empty wastes
where dust devils spin insanely
along bone-dry creek beds.
Above in featureless skies
a blind sun hides behind
a cataract of thin, high cloud.

On the flanks of a long-dead volcano
a flock of small, red finches
takes to the air like a noxious gas.
Small hardy flowers have found a home here,
attracting iridescent insects
that flit like ancient sparks.

And in a shadowed cleft of rock,
hidden from those who would hunt,
a mother guards her mewling cub.
Dark stripes mark tan, lithe flanks
as ever-alert eyes glitter,
hard as the blackest of lava.

Were she capable of mockery,
she might howl in triumph
at those who believe her extinct.
Yet for the present she awaits Mankind’s destruction,
knowing then that the thylacine
will reclaim their ancestral lands.

Thin, cold air,
bright sunlight.
Faint clouds border pale,
empty skies.
Ancient stones lie tumbled.
Vast, silent ruins
of a forgotten age.

An iridescent beetle
scuttles down
through cracked strata.
What cataclysm occurred here?
What distant cosmic dream
became unspeakable
nightmare?

It stands in the corner,
forgotten by all,
as the fallen leaves gather
in drifts by the wall.

Where the dead grasses lean
through the cold evening mist,
lies the grave of the unknown
Pacifist.

By boulder-strewn cold misted ways
I moved in bitter northern lands
where ice once groaned with prophecy
I turned my back on Man.

Beneath Great Shunner Fell I danced
where curlews cry to wake the ******  
I scattered hail upon the ground
by ancient rocks I sang.

I fell, and in my falling turned
so many eyes and hearts and hands
yet Hardraw Force's roaring lays
they'll never understand.

By stark winter trees
where snow lays glimmering
beneath a timeless moon,
he howls across bleak centuries.  
Bitter wind, tinged with distant scents,
ruffles thick, grey fur.  
Unfathomable night unfolds,
and he watches with yellow eyes
as thin high clouds obscure,
and then reveal again,
tiny alien stars.

Bitter is the wind tonight,
ruffling tawny feathers
as silent owl swoops low
to snare oblivious vole.

Bat flits haphazard beneath dark boughs;
***** watches sly from hidden thicket,
scenting reckless rabbit, hapless hare.

By sunken ponds where old gorse rustles
alongside tired hawthorn,
snail writes glimmering messages
in liquefying mud.

And along byways lit by a golden moon,
polished bright by passing rags of cloud,
I walk homewards through cold centuries.