Wintry gusts are speaking now,
Leaving the ash with naked bough,
Bare and sorry by the cornfield.
Hear the wind in angry roars,
Rushing against the kitchen doors,
Sweeping everything to its shield.
Shelterless fields are cold and bare
The calves are taken in with care,
From the winter’s shivering gust,
That floods the bog a foaming sea,
Leaving the beech a weeping tree,
The beaten chill-plough red with rust.
Torrens Kennedy Age 12