Frosty icicles thrust up from the ground
Make sheep tiptoe between them.
Robin’s sing on an icy bough found
Their voice on this cold earths stem.
Blackbirds with their orange bills
And their jaunty hopping gait
Look out from their window sills
In the wood, standing they wait.
A watery sun high in the sky shines
Its weak light over the cold earth
The cold in all it labour grinds
The sap of the deep winter’s birth.
– David Wood
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