Falling Poem by Christopher Woodall

The February sun is warm as tea
And the newly-coined air thick as gravy
On our ledge of moor in our office clothes
Where wild sheep stray from the old drovers road.

After sandwiches in silent dreams lost
We permeate with the fresh-melted frost
Open windows to the brilliant sky
Which overhangs this heather-spread hillside

There is only her breathing and the birds
Which compliment rather than disturb
My mood; when the appointed hour arrives
With a renewed beatitude I drive

That grim grey line which drains down to the town
And my towering office can not drown
Out the impression of that diamond sky,
The scent of her hair, or my thankful smile.