"Winter at the Paddocks" Poetry by Fergus Caulfield
As the sun sits low, flaming red but powerless, the frozen sod could be Christmas cake frosting. My breath is visible with each crunching step towards the back fence, checking for damage, and water glistens like diamonds under the ice in the trough as I kick the sides to loosen its grip, gasping in shock when I lift the three inch thick, rectangular block out. Hoof print art in the mud throughout…
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