Winter by Brigid Smith


Waiting in the poultry farm

Rusted harrow and piled wood
pulled down years ago
stack against the wind.
Pollinated with snow
the grubby yard transforms.
Old sycamore leaves hang
scribbled on the sky
Chinese against a watery blue.
Snow holds everything in suspension.
Ice still solid at the roots of grass
drips on the stony path.

At the heart of things there is change.
To what run-off will this melting take us?

Visit Bidgid Smith’s blog here

8 thoughts on “Winter by Brigid Smith”

  1. Lovely post and lovely piece of writing from Brigid but when you can, maybe she will want her name corrected. With love Caroline


  2. I’ve been enjoying this poem very much. I grew up on a farm and Brigid uses the rural and seasonal images very effectively to write about the passage of time. Love the first sentence with the rusted harrows & the knocked over woodpile. The past is almost as much of a mystery as the future. We’re always and only can be at that “now” point. Also visited Brigid’s blog. Enjoyed her latest post there so now am following. And the leaf + snow photo is perfect. Thanks.

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