Easterly the winds are blowing,
Howling, fifing through the keyhole;
Hard as flint is all the landscape;
Shifting snow shall come and gather
O’er the hard and black brown furrows.
On the ash-twig tunes the song thrush,
Tunes the little spotted song thrush,
And the jolly, half-starved robin
Sings as sweetly as the blackbird.
Bob Cochrane Age 12