Down in the valley Spring is here.

The hawthorn and the larch

Are spreading fingers brilliant green

On twig and stem and branch.

But up here such a world away

A hint of winter stays,

The east wind might return at will

The moor with ice to glaze.

There in amongst the roughest grass

Immobile, frozen, still,

I see the last of Winter's blast;

A silhouette on the hill.

From just beneath his black-tipped ears

His coat's the purest white;

A ghost of winter's snow-storm;

A blizzard taking flight.

His presence only transient,

Then to my gaze is lost,

Away he dashes out of sight;

A glimpse of Winter's frost.

It's time to lose his winter cloak,

Put on his vernal gown,

Though his soot-dusted twitching ears

Will always be his crown.

His spirit like some magic here

A lonesome winter king

But as he dashes o'er the moors

I hope he finds his spring.