First Snow of Winter
 
 
This is autumn   this is April
   the dry grass shivering
in a wind off early snow   the chill
   hurts yet the ropey-necked
merinos amble along unconcerned
   as if portent’s of no concern
to them   there’s new snow
   like a sprinkle of salt
on Dunstan Peak   and a sugary
   coating all the way along the tops
from St Bathans to the Ida   what’s
   on its way can be guessed
what’s gone is like the blue hills
   in the west   the Old Man
and Old Woman ranges and
   the Hectors too   all of them indistinct
yet assuringly bulky   what happened
   through winter spring and summer
happened and some of it made
   for happiness   only the skies
seem to say   to behave in ways
   that make you wonder what next
they’re grey off-white indigo and pale blue
   like trails of vapour   they tell
that winter’s on its way   warm days
   are over  it’s time to light the fires inside


Brian Turner

Hawkdun Summer
 
In the dun valleys
the wind’s your life talking
morning, noon, and evening
before fields of stars
cluster above the pleated Hawkduns
and you’re left feeling
either less, or more, harried,
because that’s fate
when you’re in between.
 
And there are days when
a breeze ruffles the valley’s grasses
and the Ida’s a broad shallow sound,
and there are times
when time alone passes
and a temperament you can’t deny
accentuates the view
of unquenchable blue. And that’s
when you’re most
like you.


Brian Turner