Late season’s mist

The woodlands fade beyond the steps above the sea and leave me in pockets ice-cold as North Wales alone can be in wintry times that foreign climes seem less inclined to be.

My breath escapes the confines of my swelling breast in clouds uniting with the swirling mists that mark my pass and I surrounded roundabout with swathes of silent vapour think of sun-warmed days in summer now long past.

New lambs beneath their mother’s bellies feed from udders swollen then bereft until they feed again on grass digested for their young that bleat unceasing in the crowd for warmth again.

New life is born a day and then in hours becomes quite old in many ways as days for them in hunger can be hard to so endure but with each bleating cry a mother eats a baby feeds and life goes on.

In life, suspended in dependence there, the lamb is strengthened by her mother’s care, milk-filled with warmth inside, her nurtured goodness seems complete and without need for any other aspect of her life.