A Child's Calendar

No visitors in January

A snowman smokes a cold pipe in the yard.

They stand about like ancient women,

The February hills.

They have seen many a coming and going, the hills.

In March. Moorfea is littered

With knocked-kneed lambs.

Daffodils at the door in April.

Three shawled Marys.

A lark splurges in galilees of sky.

And in May

Peatmen strike the bog with spades,

Summoning black fire,

The June bee

Bumps in the pane with a heavy bag of plunder.

Strangers swarms in July

With cameras, binoculars, bird books.

He thumped the crag in August,

A blind blue whale.

September crofts get wrecked in blond surges.

They struggle, the harvesters,

They drag loaf and ale-kirn into winter.

n October the fishmonger

Argues, pleads, threatens at the shore.

Nothing in November

But tinkers at the door, keening with cans.

Some ecember midnight

Christ, lord, lie warm in our byre.

Here are stars, an ox, poverty enough.