Since we’re on a bit of a poetry kick, here’s a killer one from Ted Hughes (via my awesome sister Judith)
Evil air, a frost-making stillness, Not a leaf, not a bird –
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness Till the moorline – blackening dregs of the brightening grey –
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses: Huge in the dense grey – ten together –
Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move, with draped manes and tilted hind-hooves,
Making no sound. I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments Of a grey silent world. I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge.
The curlew’s tear turned its edge on the silence. Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue, And the big planets hanging –
I turned Stumbling in the fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops, And came to the horses.
There, still they stood,
But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light, Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped, Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys in the red levelling rays – In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.