He Is An Island In The Snow Poem by Mark Heathcote

He is an island in the snow
warming his final winter in heavy boots
with his back now to the coal fire
stamping his feet like a steam engine
with puffs of pipe tobacco smoke.
He is at the final station at the terminus
but his baying stock needs milking
today he'll drag his last bale of rotting hay.
The Firebrats will perform their ritual
morning acrobats as the cinders turn cold in the grate.
And the milk churns buttery gold
turn equally to mould, the cockerel-will cry.
The dog will bark, and his stoic sobbing wife,
his cherished wife will wave goodbye,
it will be one final last farewell
to all the decades of self-sacrifice gone before.


A dedication to farmer Colin Darbyshire, Blackhill Farm and others of the same ilk.