Winter Trees
Black against the white carpet
Branches whip like agitated fingers;
Silhouetted against the impossibly blue sky,
Caught in the watery pale winter sun
You cast your shadowed arms,
Against the gray drystone walls.
Crook back you are, and aged.
Many a winters tale you could tell
Of the icy winds that broke you.
'Twas no easy surrender to bend
To lean for support against the bank
For like me my silent old friend
Deep in your cold winter sleep
You are a survivor of the blasted heath.
- Babbling Brookes
