Fain

Amidst a morning gale I glance towards, the brae nigh and sense the hale breeze. Beyond a glebe in the bough as I gander, twain sparrows twitter within the meadows. And I see the guise of the rowans that skitter, the streams of murky swales with such ease. Beyond a knoll as I begin to eavesdrop I hear, the whirr of snicker of bairns in the billows. They romp in frisk blithesome and too droll, near the addle fronds with their loving kith. Within roses that are ruddy and the thicket, I see a shrew saunter and the fox scamper. I breathe the breath of a new fresh midday, and feel the soothing gleam of the sun lithe. A blustery storm from a horizon approaches, and the shutters begin to afterwards judder. Then the storm frazzles as the frumpish soil, is covered in wimples of puddles too laggard. After awhile a starkness of the day prevails, over a fringe of a lonesome moorland anew. The brisk puddles soon dwine for the nonce, as tawny leaves of the trees then staggered. Hitherto the sound of the travails are averred, from within the longsome byres that are few. The lovely blooms of the meadows to flourish, amidst winsome oak trees hither and thither. Henceforth the fronds become tawny amain, as winter wrests the taut rigidity of the ferns. The ground spreads with the dollop of snow, a true sign there exists change in the weather. Therewith I warm myself under the hearth, as a chunk of wood afterwards then burns. It is a time when my days and nights come, with delectable sounds of the nearby moors. To hearken back to my old days of wayfare, when I was a younker in this beloved domain. They are the tales of yore when life was tilled, by the toilsome sweat of the wrought boors. Whilom when my life from beyond the welkin, with the kinsfolk was truly wonderful and fain.