The High Tide

Send us Fan MailHigh TideIn the high tide of darkness, in the cold, the wet and wind blown, the new dawn waits off stage, waiting for the surge of winter, the blindness of January, in seeds of clouds and moon, waiting to be sown, and below, the huddled rooftops, behind alder, beech and yew, the village church points skywards, and chimes to the world, time unfolding the hours anew.For it’s a long way to summer, and autumns long and fallen, in the leaves across the empty country lane, and so to walk into the morning, with coat, hat and scarf, and believe that April will comeonce [email protected]