Changing seasons in the absence of Ted Hughes

The changing seasons in the absence of Ted Hughes

Trees become wizened
Birds head for the horizon
A dark lull descends

The snow shudders down
Onto the ice-bitten ground
Lost birds are screaming

Fresh star-twinkle dew
The crisp air of something new
Spring is here at last

Skies set on fire
By the swallow of summer
Ted Hughes still looks on