Grey stone mountain
rain
and the gathering fogs
Drip drip the gutters
and the gurgling stream.
Two ravens out of the mirk
strut about warily
not seeing the face behind the window,
deftly grabbing a wad of rice
fly off into cloud.
Dark light at noon
no sign of sun,
full moon falteringly filtering
through the dismal night.
Warm and muggy
Welsh winter
washing itself away.
Not very good weather we're having!
No o.
Better 'an snow tho.
Not so sure
Cold's a better time
ice and hoar frost
bright days.
S'long as you're not driving isn't it?
Aai.
Can't expect much else, mind you
the time of the year.
I always say!
Sheep OK?
Damp's no good for the feet like
but woolly coats does 'em fine.
Look cheerful enough don't ey?
Up on your tod then - nobody with you?
Meditation is it?
Ah - wri-ting too then. Well
quiet enough up here
for sure.
Time to get on with it-
up the hill for a look round.
Missus'l be waiting for her tea.
Til next time then - is it.
Grey day
day barely day
cold wind slicing the grasses
puddles iced, walking with caution
ears and fingers freeze.
I puff on my hands.
Cold mist
clings to the hill side trees,
no sky at all, dull light
draining colour from the land.
Deep in their roots
sycamores sleep
bare twigs clutching at the wind.
Hull down in hollows
sheep are motionless,
backs to breeze
shrammed heifers stand like statues,
where no sun rises
hoar frost lies on the land.
Down a hedgerow
evening Blackbird squawks
despondency,
Crows pass lolling on the wind
watchful, waiting.
A time for ghosts
howling down the whitened hills
maddened in the grey freeze.
Deep in my hearth now
frosty fire tongues leap
at the coming night.
John Crook, 1993 - 1996
