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It's cold and still. Outside the back door. Even time seems frozen. By the wintry hoar. Trees weighing heavy. From the frosting they wear. They appear in bloom. Even though they are bare.
The sun rises over the downs. Skies a subtle amber to pastel blue. The ancient monument that can be seen for miles. Silhouetted oak trees frame its perfect view.
This is a poem from my teenage years:) I've just come in from the wet and cold But while outside I did behold, the hills before me, white with mist, the drizzling rain which did persist, to drive...