Christmas was dull and only full of rain
then the cold was here before New Year tolled.
Beyond the mill-town, hills are capped with snow
where Sunday adventurers venture out.
Parked vehicles line the road where walkers leave
to take the precarious Pennine way.
Low ice-clouds driven by the bitter wind
keep Bleaklow hidden from our nearby gaze.
Past Doctor’s Gate, compare the bare white scree
to the brown of fir trees rising skyward.
Green-wellied children in slush strewn lay-bys
construct snowmen out of embedded cones
On the eighth of twelve days we start to sing
catching the mood, though a little too late