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Winter
By
Win Rainer
The wind whistles a sad lamment
At the passing of summer days
The birds have lost their song
Across the meadow the mist lays.
Shuffling my feet thro’ leaves
As I walk down the lane
Hands deep in pockets
My face wet with rain,
Noisey rooks flying overhead
The cows waiting to be milked and fed
In the distance the call of pheasent to his mate
Poor birds will the shotgun be their fate
The rain stops, leaving a damp dismal day
Nature sleeps in its quiet way.
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