Glenlyon

         GLENLYON


All January the hills curved with perfect snow;
now this morning the grazed eyeball of a moon
rolls into blue silence. A sunlight,
frail and liquid, sluices all the fields.

A tattered huddle of a lamb
rends the day with sadness.
The trees whisper, lift and fall;
there flutters on the breeze sleet, soft as wool.


     Kenneth Steven
     from his collection Coracle, published by SPCK in London, 2014