While walking on a hill near the River Wye at Chepstow
It’s cold and the grass is hard with frost,
As the tired moon,
Still beautiful after a long time out,
Removes her make-up
And thinks back on her conquests of the night.
The pale old sun, not well at all,
Pushes back the blankets
And reluctantly comes out.
With a sigh,
He forces himself to go through the motions.
The crows caw loudly in the tall oaks
To tell the world that they too are starting
On the business of the day.
The cows begin to browse on grass
They could not see just half an hour before.
The puddles hard with ice like panes of glass,
Lie here and there in the muddy field
That now can drink the rain no more.
The traffic sounds a distant throb
As the headlights climb the veins
To and from the heart of the little town,
Where the streetlamps light the early risers
On their cold way out to work.
The old people in the home,
At home no longer,
Begin to think about the day
That they will spend inside.
The school stirs as the bells wake the young sleepers
To their routine, governed by bells.
Shops unlock and offices are lit
As computers sort themselves out for the tasks ahead,
And the working day shakes itself
And gets into the right frame of mind.
The moon, still bright,
Takes one last look,
Draws the clouds across her window,
And then lies down to sleep the short day through.