Fred Beake

End of Winter?

The wind bites through
my thickest jumper

and I have been more ill
than for some years.

Still we venture on foot
the short stretch

from ancient pack bridge
to Victorian chapel

‒as those in ancient days
made a praise of pilgrimage.

The little river is full
of wild water like white flames.

The odd snowdrop lurks
‒cautiously, defiantly.

But round the chapel where
we had hoped for so many more

barely one is open, though the beginnings are there
and Spring will arrive from somewhere, soon.

Fred Beake was influenced by his childhood in the West Riding. He has translated widely from modern French and classical Latin, and more recently classical Greek.