I am no poet — this is just my ramblings, no editing, just what was in my head this morning … sorry to the poets who know better
The morning is edged in crisp winterings.
The air has a tingling coldness; cheeks licked stiff.
Birds sing, mountains frame the moment in whiteness.
Water starts to sliver over the cracked lane surface where the ice melts.
Wellington slips on the edge. heart gambols. But not lambs.
I look into the face of the sheep and see resistance. They will hold their offspring in as long as possible, lest slip onto icy meadows.
Girl and dog walk the lanes and plan their days — one beautiful in the simplicity of play and sleep and raw hide.
The other of deadlines and word counts.
But both smile.
It was a good walk. Dreams are made and won in moments when we walk.
In the crisp winterings of spring.