Yesterday I had a day all to myself as the farmer was away, so I took the opportunity to completely clean out my computer desk. What a revelation. I was amazed by the amount of poetry I had written in the days before my medication stopped my creative processes working, and also astonished to find out the number of posts I had written and how long I had been blogging.
I came across the entry which I had printed out for some reason - for Tuesday 6th January 2009. I called the poem 'The Coldest Night of the Year' and it struck me that it was quite relevant for today. The temperature here today is twelve degrees colder than it was yesterday; there is a bitter Easterly wind blowing and every few minutes there is a heavy shower. It would seem that Autumn has arrived with a vengeance. In fact (look away now if you would rather not know this), I have put on my thermals today.
So here, with no apologies, is a repeat of that entry on the coldest night of the year. I am certain it will not be the coldest night of the year but from where I am standing it sure feels like it will be.
from his lofty perch
looks down on the
glittering, moonlit yard.
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 -
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 drawn, the dark comes down.
The fieldmouse moves across the yard
to find the corn to feed her brood.
He swoops, the 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.
So join me in spirit for a glass of blackberry whisky and a toasted
crumpet before a blazing fire. Keep warm
This is my 1673rd blog post.