Winter Solstice
The clouds roar through the tops
of the pines, the lions are quiet,
pheasants call from the woods behind us.
Heavy drops fall through
still air to the path and grass below,
still sodden from melted snow.
Through the gate we face
strange forms of mist which
sweep from Selwood forest and
over the house and up the slope
and over our heads, touching the stones
as they fly to the treetops.
© Paul McCombie 2011