Winter's Edge
by Annie Jenkin

Walking across moorland
over wilted grasses and rusted bracken,
the air chilled.

Trees wear winter colours
of copper, silver and sage greens.
Emerald moss richly cloaks
each tree trunk, covering
giant granite rocks—like
a myriad of scatter cushions
softening surfaces, easy on the eye.

As the last low sunlight
travels through a corridor
of glowing golden leaves
of beech and birch, I crunch
littered pine nuts underfoot.
Squelching in squishy debris
of summer's forgotten beauty.

A brook, flush with recent rains
rapidly runs its narrow course,
tripping over broken branches
and tangles of twigs in its hurry.
Pausing, I pick up a long stick
helping to clear its path.

Bluetits, wrens and robins
add their colour and song,
are fewer in number now
but the land is ready,
as winter's teeth
are not yet showing.

As the year slips away,
the moorland holds firm.
Reminding me it's time to rest
time to revive my spirit.



 

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