Sharp Day

The wind had knives, I could feel
them, biting into my skin if
I ventured out;  the wind tossed
the trees and scudded in and
out of the small cottages, bobbed
daffodil heads on the green.

Clouds passed over from
South to North going on some
journey I could not see - the
hill was dark.  Not much

else moved out there.  I stayed
in today, feeling the day
inhospitable and sharp.  It was
quiet in here with me, there

were no words, just my seeing
eyes on the window
and the page.  It has died now,
out there all is still - too late

for the garden as light wanes
to dark, dark over the hill.

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