New On Old

We walked out one winter's morning,
The first snow we had.
It fell, still - slow, round and heavy,
Like drops of sleep.
Nothing stirred in the aching trees
Or patient lanes --
But a reverent silence.
Striding out in giant's footsteps,
Where crops struggled up black goblin hair,
We felt the wind bow down our backs
Like a godly hand in a cold cathedral,
And hurried home.

Yet by four, sunlight ran like butter
Across a line of hedges,
Down the plump, pillowed fields and drip, drip, dripping
In the churchyard.
The old spring lambs leapt and butted,
And then a skylark rose -
A gladening prayer,
In a sunset pink, new
And cold.