He Is An Island In The Snow

He is an island in the snow warming his final winter in heavy boots with his back now to the coal fire stamping his feet like a steam engine with puffs of pipe tobacco smoke. He is at the final station at the terminus but his baying stock needs milking today he'll drag his last bale of rotting hay. The Firebrats will perform their ritual morning acrobats as the cinders turn cold in the grate. And the milk churns buttery gold turn equally to mould, the cockerel-will cry. The dog will bark, and his stoic sobbing wife, his cherished wife will wave goodbye, it will be one final last farewell to all the decades of self-sacrifice gone before. A dedication to farmer Colin Darbyshire, Blackhill Farm and others of the same ilk.