Mid-December
Clouds of dark blue-grey slide by,
Gilt-tinged by a low-slung sun.
The promised threat of wetter weather wanes,
As clearer patches fill the sky.
But chilling twilight has now begun
To frost the roofs and window panes,
Coating grass and naked trees,
Where birds seek out an errant crumb.
Through empty, rutted country lanes
Are etched signs of last summer. These
Pitted tracks that only months before did hum
With drones of pollen-poaching bees.
Wally Smith 