
Cold winds blow in Gilda’s valley;
Pine trees bare their branches bowing
to the valley sweep, snow drifts
in every recess, closing up
the cave mouth and the foxes hole.
And when the orbit of the wind
dies screaming at the funnels mouth,
eerie stillness clings to every pine.
The valley has the emptiness
of absent birds. Each wind struck
tendril savaged from the bough
lies black upon the drifted snow,
more alive than dead –waiting change;
dissolution in the spring thaw.
And for the thrush who fell asleep
cradled in the pine root mosses
gently held in the bedding snow,
Spring has met the summer sun;
Pine trees spread their branches,
warm winds blow in Gilda’s valley.
