Tuesday, 3 February 2009

White Fields

White Fields
In winter-time we go
Walking in the fields of snow;
Where there is no grass at all;
Where the top of every wall.
Every fence, and every tree,
Is as white as white can be.
Pointing out the way we came -
Every one of them the same-
All across the fields there be
Prints in silver filigree;
And our mothers always know,
By the footprints in the snow,
Where it is the children go.
This poem by James Stephens sums up the day here.