A winters' glen

The misty morn's cold fingers grow,

To caress the hills and vales below

Till fully clothed the shivering trees,

Await the Sun with warming breeze.

The Sun has won and burnt away

To reveal the green that till then was Grey,

The birds are singing saluting Sol

Paying homage with their welcome call.

It does not last come post the noon.

The warmth of Sol will part from us soon

From the gurgling of the burns

The rising clinging mist returns.

The folk are returning to their homes

A roaring fire to warm the bones

The day wears on the darkness comes,

To hide the smoke from reeking lums.