Frost

Frost holds tight.
Though February sun
Pleads for St Valentine,
Frost says ‘Wait’

In iron–bound meadows
Snow obstinately lies
Like thin white shadows
Northward of walls and trees.

For ewes in huddled flock
There's little to eat,
Little for lambs to suck.
Moorhens inspect
Pools that should be their home,
Still cruelly locked

But frost hold tight.
Frost says ‘Wait!’