The sun's warm against the slats of the granary, a puddle of ice in the shadow of the steps; a bluetick hound lopes across the winter wheat - fresh green, cold green. The windmill, long out of use, screeches and twists in the wind. A spring day too loud for talk when bones tire of their flesh and want something better. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND by THOMAS MOORE THE SWALLOWS by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS WERE IT ONLY NOW by A. W. BELL JOB. THE INSCRUTABLE MYSTERY by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE STEALING OF THE MARE; AN ARABIC EPIC OF THE TENTH CENTURY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |