Weblog of the Sydney Traditionalist Forum
On the ice-edge of the hill
Gazing down grateful from verge of valley,
Coming in across country, a splinter of winter –
My feet hold fields.
And today, I saw the sun so wonderfully die,
The land turn black, crisp cutout trees clutching stricken stars,
My Ordnance Survey filled –
Dry moats overjumped, fallen houses seen, old stories
Stopped, pinned in place – “There is one surviving tower…”
Behind lie iron miles,
Silver-gilded soil and waiting woods, locked churches, ways
Silent and significant. The frost flakes flowers.
Now a great and universal chill –
Over unforgiving earth beasts bump their prize away,
Next year’s crops parade with glinting points, owls blink away hours.