Icy, the breeze
slides.
Nipped
fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh.
Cold mud,
under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate
of the field where the old barn squats.
To the
gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open
sky: wide open sky.
Beautiful! And shivery. I drew my blanket closer around my shoulders.
ReplyDeleteAnd as the wind doth howl out yonder window, your words, your photos, reminiscent of an earlier time today.
ReplyDeleteThank you,
Gary
Oh, thank you for the image with your words!
ReplyDeleteI envy you your snowdrops; it's still far too cold for them here.
ReplyDeleteThank you all!! Yep, it's chilly here, but so much to marvel at. Would like to live in field where the old barn sits :-)
ReplyDelete