The view across the wood
so different from the spring,
cold and down to minus six.
Ferns have dropped their fronds
birches naked in the wind,
shortest day next Monday.
New Year starting soon
perhaps in snow, that would be nice,
but not too much!
From Long-Mynd top the sheep are down
cows milking in the diary,
sheepdogs curl beside the hearth
a treat for them, better than the barn.
Days growing longer, minutes added daily
early mornings once again, whistles all day long.
February cold to come, fighting springtime sun
daffodils in Jessop's copse, catkins in the alder,
pregnant does and badgers rest,
Reynard howling through the night,
down to eating worms and berries,
dreaming rabbits suckling cubs.
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Comments about this poem (..Nineteenth December.... by John Rickell )
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