Bruised clouds are looming above Thanet’s purple land.

From over Pegwell Bay the east wind sweeps the snow
in flurried bursts across the marsh and up to Ham.
The flakes are metal-grey against the thickening sky,
but on the fields their woolly whiteness shames the sheep
who forage unconcerned among the Brussels stumps.

Coming home from Eastry, we pass the deadened pub
and reach the Updown corner. We turn to face the snow.
It grows like glassy warts on hair and scarves and gloves.
Our faces sting with cold and yet they’re glowing warm.

Here at the top there‘s nowhere for the flakes to stop.
They’re sifted horizontally. There are no drifts.
But down the hill where snow is dumped beneath the bank
their crests are caught like waves from Hokusai, their foam
is captured in the very instant that they break.

In the shelter of the trees by West Street Farm
there is less snow. Small white flakes dart, erratically
in the suspended air above the empty road.
We walk more quickly here and pass the silent yard
whose puddles are iced mud. Snow has wiped the signpost
but to us it doesn’t matter. We know our way
and turn left down the hill. Beyond the woods is home.

Image credit: Byway to Eastry (2) by David Anstiss, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons