Thursday, 21 January 2016

Poem 2016 / 017

Boythorpe Wood

Paw prints in the mud
frozen by January cold.

She stumps along, shoelaces
trailing from her purple boots,
the lead looped around one wrist
and held tight. Ice cracks
under her tread and the trees
moan softly in the wind.

Distant barking.
The sun comes out.

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