Winter

Chill wind nip and tuck,
prune, wither and decay.
Flick crisp tatters from
bare branches
poking the cold sky.

The last cow has stopped giving milk.
The bony calf bleats weakly
but will not die.
It leans against the fence
ignoring winter's grip
its eye fixed on a future
of spring-mirage
that will, one day,
put dandelions at its feet,
wreathe its neck with daisies
and fatten its flanks
with lush grasses.