Bright mustard lichen, stuck on
silver skeleton trees, looked on by
taller, boney figures, grasping bushels;
moss green mistletoe.
Rich evergreens, staining
a weathered grey cloak
of ashen winter, reluctant spring
mountains; aged and towering –
pale dead wisps, yellow
amongst swathes of scrub, ’round
old tin-roofed houses, under heavy cloud,
with shuttered windows,
wood, stone, sleepily shadowed
by grander nature.