Sunday, 26 January 2014

winter 1978


the mill by andrew wyeth 1964

the waggons broken
we hefted the hay on our backs
out to the fields
finding the missing ones
buried in the white out
just a small air hole
letting us know their place
freed they skitter to the flock
then find food and comfort
i stretch my back
my breath steams with the exertion
the fluttering comes again
close pulled coat protects
i hope the next night is easier
for us all.


in another life.....on a hill farm.....harsh winters......we are all mothers....
the mag is here for the other poets work

7 comments:

  1. Immediately I could identify with feeding animals under adverse conditions...breaking the ice in their water troughs...my father said, The greatest mortal sin is to leave an animal in a pen without water.

    Well done. "Mother"

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  2. It can be quite a testing type of experience from the usual. To think one can discover them from under the snows! Nicely kay!

    Hank

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  3. I hope so too! Perfect words put me right in the middle of it all!

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  4. You are quite right, in a way that perhaps only farmers could know ! Cheers

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  5. Incredibly vivid ~~ I have experienced wintry nights on my grandparent's farm, watched through frosted windows as they braved the elements to bring helpless animals into their barn.

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  6. oh my gosh- your excellent poem put me midst the buried creatures...I put water out every day for the animals- not because it's frozen but because we are in a severe drought.

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