No Go

Beyond the copse you just can see the hill
   and the old road across I've not yet gone;
I don’t expect the chances are I will.

The long rains over, and the mist long done
   there’ll be deep spells of frost, when all the day
is sharply cold, when all the grey has spun

out of the spectrum and the year’s decay
   seems frozen stiff. The open road lies white
beneath a hard, old sky and far away

a single crow caws in the biting light –
   pale blues, anaemic grass and leafless trees:
strict winter’s stern, cold smile, tenacious bite

and grip will paralyse the very breeze
   and make my spinning world come to a stop –
the stream won’t run, the sap of life will freeze…

in such a season I would surely drop
   before I’d even scaled the hillside half
its lonely way. I’ll never reach the top.