Wind swept cold and spongy moss
Of heather underfoot. Grey sculling
Clouds that fleece sky and sheep --
Their winter coats askew

Pipped walk through village green;
Schoolgirl talk and books of unseen
Vistas yet to come. Visit or read
'til red the stocking mean
That lasts for life.

Beatled brow hill and scowl
Of autumn close -- above the cowl
Of peat to ling the flame,
Along the road till now the same.

- L. Barber