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Walking the track
Last night the earth felt the cold.
Shrink-shiver, reaching deep,
ice-cut winds thrummed stubborn trees,
plangent-plucked the fence's wires,
and raised a bass chanter from underground,
woke sleeping contra-puntals,
let it find its tune and surface, singing counter
to a long-howled tenor and a soprano gale.
First light was late today,
flowing reluctant over hill and moor,
lighting the curtain but not coming in,
cold, thin and grey as pauper's gruel.
The piper need not stir.
White fingered wind, pale with snow,
turns bone-scull to face the other way
and sends a long slow measure after the night.
Head down, humming to help the steps,
yarding steady, one foot before the next,
I tread along crumble-topped ruts,
counting the paces needed to cover
the stretch between house and road,
walking the track to meet the post bus,
share a weather-defying smile with neighbours,
exchange letters and pass the time of day.
Returned, boots stamped, clothes shaken,
I take tea mug to my window seat and sit,
watch the wind whirl-dance with dusty snow,
hear the wind shout rock-crack war-cries,
see my footsteps, one after the next, fade
slowly under new flakes and in the darkling day.
The stove, whispering wood-spark songs,
calls me softly to lamp, book and chair.
March 11, 2000
Somerset
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