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Equator-crossed the sun grows fat,
Pricking shoots to white-legs growth,
Though midden-mist and boot-wet frost
Rattle the cowman’s morning cough –
These chill days.
Christmas
days thieved autumn’s warmth,
Though
’piphany days were ice-chunk hard;Now March and April’s cuckoo hours
With fox-grey cloud and hail make laud –
These chill days.
The
loose-lipped gaffer, dry of sap,
Unsteady
stands on shrunken legs;Not so the chestnut, fat for leaf
With treacled buds like big-thumbed figs –
These chill days.
Wind-busied
sleet begins to fall,
Bobbling
among bare-fingered trees;Buttermilk sunshine grins and sets
The yellow aconite ablaze –
These chill days.
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©
March 2014