A recent walk in the nearby quarry with my dog reminded me of this poem I wrote last November, on a wetter, windier day.
Young silver birch; leaves
Small copper butterflies pinned
Onto its branches.
Behind, the quarry cliff drips,
Freezing rain and persistent,
Probing roots prise rock
With superhuman fingers.
Dark creeps out, not light
Filtering through cracks like Hope.
Winter is coming.