New Year

Something’s moving in,

I hear the weather in the wind,

sense the tension of a sheep-field

and the pilgrimage of fins.

Something’s not the same,

I taste the sap and feel the grain,

hear the rolling of the rowan

ringing, singing in a change.

Something’s set to start,

there’s meadow-music in the dark

and the clouds that shroud the mountain

slowly, softly start to part.