Before the Snow

Winter is on us, but not yet the snow; The hills are etched on the horizon, bare, The skies are iron grey, a bitter air, With meagre clouds that shudder as they go; One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow Like some new butterfly, unclassed and rare; Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where The black trees seem to shiver as you go.

Beyond lie church and steeple, and their old And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer — A sharper gust would shock them from their hold. Yet up that path, in Maytime of the year, And past that dreary ruined tower we strolled To pluck wild strawberries with summer cheer!