The Jubilee Tower sits old and cold.
Fay, grey groaning man,
squat on the shoulder of the hill.
A robin flits to dry stone wall,
stones heavy with moss that moulders,
ingrained in memories of a thousand pilgrims.
Whistling gusts, spattering spray of grey autumn.
Aching bray of spring-mad horses in the hills,
tickling breeze in the welt of summers melt.
But now, the silence of winter! Half open skies lift the lid
on blue, while clouds race low over the hills brow.
A mousy white gown mantles the forest, settling
bright spent snow crackling on pine,
pillows of gossamer thin skin over willow and yew,
boughs creak in the calm of winters spring loaded dawn.
The picture used in this post is my own, taken in Wales.
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