Sunday, 18 January 2015


When wolves move out to hunt the hare
and stars burn coldly through the spheres,
dark forests fill with whispered prayer
where snow falls thick and drifts are sheer
and those that can stay in their lair
for night is full of hungered fear;
old owls heed all who hunker there:
the stag horn beetle, stealthy deer,
scraggy vixen and hulking bear,
yet always hold their knowledge near:
Who? Who?
                    The only words they'll share;
Who? Who?
                    Their questions ringing clear -
through bronze hung beeches, freezing air
- are winter bells no man will hear.

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