Gill Troup / Winter Winds

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A morning alone with the hill. The feelings and shapelessness still.

Crisp crunchy snows, flecting white, ferns smoothed, and on grass scatters lie.

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The dark edging slope in pink shade, skeleton trees overhead.

The fine winter sun trickles through me. Then a tractor sounds basses and booming.

In the field there are furrow white lines, to stone dykes and the shadows their spines.

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And the rocks hold my head as it fills with the soundings of wind as it swells…

Some close, whisper flutter, cool strokes. And further, tide drags from shore stones.

Then crescendo – a threat – sheet of steel is being beaten and shaken and peals…

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From so soft to much harder and faster,

And louder and colder and force

In my face and my space and then – done –

To a ripple of sound, and then none.

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And the silence of wind shapes its gift…

of the purest and fullest white drift.

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