Winter Hill

It's Winter on Winter Hill
The peewits are silent
And the moors they are still

No hare over tussock bounds
No fox trembles in eart
Dreading the call of the hounds

Snow lies thick on grass and heather
While hawk in circles flies
Casting around with eye on weather

Wild nature in wilderness gathers
Snow given respite from man
Each creature in its own way savours

Winter seen in idylic glances
Hides secret underfoot
Of creatures performing life's dances

Each their daily paths does follow
Be it floating on thermal high
Or creeping through darkened hollow

On their sharpened wits they depend
If we but considered them
Then maybe their lives we might extend


Terry Rhiannyr
January, 2013