Pockets

20 04 2014

Image

 

The mist does not clear, instead the fog
from the fall thickens. In rich seams
of jewelled dark they adjust their lamps
and chisel the walls of the slide.

They dig for a channel of warmth
in the frozen hillside. A current of winter fleeces
veining Spring’s vindictive snows.

Herculaneum. Beneath the farmer’s feet
a pasture suffocates: the tracks untread,
the trails maze; the sheep hibernate
in the stomach of the storm.

He strides the white sea like a giant,
methodically breaching and bracing
the wash of waves that crumple
in whispers below him. His crook
punches chimneys of breath
as he plumbs for pockets of his flock.

But the lambs have been born in their graves.

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4 responses

3 05 2014
jacquelinevroe

I feel the cold … Thank you for sharing again!

8 05 2014
glynfedwards

A year of winter. Thanks, that’s kind.

23 08 2014
redgladiola

Love how you paint the farmer with such grandeur. He is a hero. =)

23 08 2014
glynfedwards

A bizarre few weeks with no snow out of our window yet a sea of it in the next valley. The farmer in the picture is a Welsh TV celebrity now because of all the coverage he received about the storms and how he dealt with the weather.

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