by Geoffrey Hill (b. 1932)
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And wind went begging at the door,
And the far hills were blue with cold,
And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,
She kept the siege. And every day
We watched her brooding over death
Like a strong bird above its prey.
The room filled with the kettle's breath.
Damp curtains glued against the pane
Sealed time away. Her body froze
As if to freeze us all, and chain
Creation to a stunned repose.
She died before the world could stir,
In March the ice unloosed the brook
And water ruffled the sun's hair.
Dead cones upon the alder shook.
Published by Robin
I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.
View more posts