Last afternoon

    
     

 

Staying back at the white gate, I see our tipped field slip
above the burn as the children sledge and twist.
Curves slice snow, except at the crash-points –
a stand of gorse, the slack cairn,

your gather of stones before ploughing,
by the burn, those branches clumped
where the crisp elm fell in autumn -
spots where the churning stays.

On this last, drawn afternoon of the year,
the children manoeuvre, count their runs
above the whispering burn, their shrieks shaking
plodding grey sky from the hilltop.

           Hunger pulls them up the slope;
           the sledge, tame as a tired dog, follows.
           Their faces are fire and laughter below the house,
           over the gashed burn flowing.