March.

Even now the snow lies strewn

like something forgotten

or waiting to be collected.

There, at the limits of the field,

unreached by sunlight,

clinging to the feet of

the quivering fence posts,

where I picture him,

heavy legged

and bending thin shoes on

the frozen stubble

familiar with every ruck and forrow.

Tracing, retracing,

the worn grooves of the mind

made deeper with 

every treading.