January

The hut stood cold and empty
no ghosts this day,the old man
not beside the fire,
The lovers do not lean the wall.
Minus six at least and falling,
ferns shrivelled brown;
Across the wood no birds sing,
not a mouse in sight or sound.
We tread soft,the dog and I,
ashamed of our intrusion;
bed-time for the rabbit;
the fox has gone,now time for sleep;
around the wood  paths,wider than in summer
branches blown by Tuesday's  storm  
icy,crisp and black.no green but for my jacket
Must not be late, lanes glazed in frost,
foolish to be here at all...later will be madness;
The dying sun, now low,chills with yellow light,
no clouds to wrap the earth,
Jack has had his run, trusts me as
 I drive; home in half an hour
to ,curl up at my feet.