The Coldest Night of the Year.

The owl,

from his lofty perch

looks down on

glittering, moonlit yard.

He sees

the cattle steaming in the byre,

the farm cats, well-fed, in the hay,

the blazing fire upon the hearth,

the logs, where once

he might have perched,

piled high .

The crumpets waiting in the dish

for toasting when the fire is right.

And then the night begins to close

around the scene.

The moon retires behind the cloud,

the curtains draw,

the dark comes down.

The fieldmouse moves

across the yard,

to find the corn,

to feed her brood.

He swoops - a deadly dart -

his talons kill; without a sound

he's gone upon

his silent wing.

The cold comes down and

icy fingers coat the hedge with frost.

Inside the crumpets,

toasted at the hearth,

are eaten, whilst the owl

devours his prey,

swallowed whole, untasted,

but sufficient for the hour.

It is very cold here, so join me - in spirit - for a glass of blackberry whisky and a toasted crumpet before the kitchen fire.