Saturday, 21 February 2015


The cold miserable rain spits at me

It turns to hail and hits me; I wish
My old bones were stronger.
I remember racing down this hill on sunnier days,
The sky was always

Bluer, smiling on me, a younger self.
Now the rain won’t let up, to leave
Me in peace, to make my way home to my fields.

If I don’t get to my beloved farm soon:
I fear I will die of the cold dampness.
Through rain there
My rugged stone walls,

The ones my husband built, where hens jumped
And wild flowers grew, where smile lines
Etched my face.

Now cold wind tears like sharp stones.
When I stumble, I claw earth.
Tears mingle with rain. This is not the first time
I’ve tended to wander;

Wishing to be safe, warm in my lonely marital bed.
I rise, a moor-hen screeches, a hare bounds lightly.

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