Comfort Kin
There are
sheep afar.
I hear them bleating,
and see a tiny figure
meeting them with food,
far below in a winter field.
High here,
sky clear,
northerly wind blows chill.
Fleeting finches comfort kin
with tiny cries
as the sun goes in.
Full moon,
night soon,
fungi in the frosty laneside rot.
Will you not come back, my love
and warm my fireless heart?
Owl at the moon cries
"she will not".