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.
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