A small bird perched on a stone fence,
It’s song is simple yet it sticks, like the snow
Sprinkled thickly on the ground,
Carried across the farm lined with stark bare trees,
A gust of wind brushes against
Your neck, grey skies, a pair of dark eyes.
Deep blue painted and brilliant yet
Blanketed by heavy snow, the farm
It stands, old and creaky and tall.
An ancient song echoes through the structures
Encasing every plank, every crack,
An onyx fireplace inside.
Strikingly cold, harsh
Black and white and streaks of blue sit
With dark eyes, knowing this place
Calmly, curiously, poised carefully.
Unfazed, un-cold, familiar with these enduring lands,
An old song, watchful and renowned.