poem

 Alexandra

 When the mist creeps down off the Old Man Range it Fills the valley like a sink  Leaving the bare hills white.

 We light the fire and let the flames  Thaw our finger tips  leaving them warm and tingle.

 When the sun brakes through the cloud  It lifts the steam with  Rays of streaming light like a torch.

 We leave the safety of the house  Into the cool fresh air  And be happy for there is sun.