Calderstones Park (Winter 1969)
Bare feet on burning snow
they bury their footfingers,
the crystals shine upwards
at icy eyed sun, it sparkles
like precious rock on a finger.
I look at those circles, lying
like ancient artist's monuments
carved in a woolly whiteness.
The wind, how it now burns me,
it carves lined edges to my face,
My skin is velvet turned leather,
folding itself for a little protection.
By Clive Griffiths