Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
ForecastsForecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky greyForecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?Version:1.0 StartHTML:0000000168 EndHTML:0000003603 StartFragment:0000000468 EndFragment:0000003586
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey
Forecasts
When I look out of the window
I see a mist hanging
and the trees look as if someone had spilt them.
Like a dried tree,
a broken animal horn on my windowsill.
How long has it been there?
How long ago did the beast-
deer, Highland sheep?- die?
And that rusted wheelbarrow
upturned in the field to my right:
what was the last load it carried?
And to where?
Nearly the end of April.
We’re always wondering what the sky will yield.
This one presses down.
Who would dare predict
exactly what kind of day
lies behind that slow smoky grey?
Like this:
Like Loading...
Pam Thompson 