Winter’s Bench

Walking through the winter woods,
My breath the harshest sound,
Past ancient oaks, kissed by the ice,
And frozen in the ground.

My path, a leafy frosty carpet,
Snaps beneath my boots,
Shattering the small ice pools
Between the exposed roots.

The Holly almost berryless,
The best has been and gone,
Apart from at the very top,
For birds to feed upon.

Sunlight works in shorter hours,
And frost may yet prevail,
No warmth has reached the Eastern slopes
That edge this Yorkshire dale.

Beyond the sugar-coated rocks
A clearing to the sky,
And there a bench to sit upon,
To watch the world go by.

I take the seat that’s offered me,
I must not miss a thing,
So I will sit and rest awhile
And wait here for the Spring.

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