Battered by cold winter winds,

The farmer tends the stones.

He knows the secrets of the frost.

Whispered in hushed tones.


Protected by his weathered skin,

Furious to finish.

He lays the stones as best he can,

Knowing they diminish.


The stones he laid past winter,

He laid with bygone skills.

Passed to him from brethren,

In fields, past steeper hills.


Sheep look on in silence,

The farmer’s work complete.

His footsteps left emblazoned,

On the ancient Celtic peat.


The easterly blows bitterly,

Against the farmer’s way.

The stone wall left to balance,

For another windswept day.


© The Secret Poetess, March 2018