Brambles wrack my jumper and berries shrivel and wither back into the old wooden wardrobe of deep autumn hedge.
Brown trees become the uniform colour of winter and the northern grey blanket spreads its heavy silence over the last blush of berry and hardened tufts of hay.
Robin hides in the orchard like an unseasoned apple and the bullfinch now surprises the darkest of days.
Shadows fade and the silence of cattle footnote the calendar of the cold seasons sleep.
The forward clock rewinds and the early new mornings yawn as the dark chilled air knocks.
Black sky domes and the vixen breathe clouds of a keen-nocturnal breath stage lit by satellite;
And I lean back on the cold stone of silence.
My Winter is here.
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