A white frost tops the stone walls
and the still solid posts of the abandoned fence line
that stretches up to the ancient track of Ditchedge Lane,
look as if crystal ice upon them might bond to any touch.
The perspective of the field we are in,
points in neat rows towards silhouettes of bare oaks,
tho’ in part, still gloriously sky-cloaked by the lifting misty sky,
and to the left, a terrace of twisted small trees,
mostly hawthorn, impatient for first leaf and nesting birds,
or blackthorn, desperate to bloom,
while myriad clumps of frost-spiked grass
pay homage to those fan spread hands of clouds
with their bird-breast plumage and soft angelic down
that hover above the shy pink, grey dawn gold, of sun rising
into a blue sky, that promises brightness to a winter’s day
and perhaps a lifting of some heart, in Sibford Gower.

Jo the Po
December 2021