Skirting the copse

Skirting the copse

With the crows' nests

High up in the trees

Exposed in winter

But rarely used

Once the canopy has thinned.

Crows are not fussy

About the decor

But enjoy their own company

Shouting me down

Through the fall of the sun

And into dusk.

The dog gives as good as he gets

As we tramp over the soil

Heavy with clay

Weighing down my Wellingtons

It clogs and clings,

Dragging the strength

Out of tired limbs

Aching to get home.

The dog can smell the fire

Excited by the thought

Of supper

And the comfort of the rug

The crackle of cinders

Shooting up into the chimney.

In midwinter, the soil is as hard as stone

Frozen solid.

The nip of the north wind

The icy blast of sea fret

Covering the ground

Every morning

Like a throw.

Snow is never far away

The dog does somersaults,

We build snowmen

And bonfires.

The crows are never silent,

Hatching plots

Devising punishments.

Children hide in hedgerows

Laughing like drains

Every time a snowball

Hits its target

And the trees stand tall

Scraping the sky clean

Skeletons until spring

When the world turns

Green

Evening walks become

More than a privilege

To forget

And last so much longer

Than sunset.