10 APRIL 2004, Page 33

Winter by the Evenlode

We pulled ourselves to the top of the hill.

Past the crowds of wind which raced Against us with an idiot strength, and gained The shelter of a great beech tree, where we Blew our noses and looked about to find Life had been recalled. The muddy field-edge, The broken barn, everything churned and Puddled, abandoned and sullenly calm.

The river ran below us, fast asleep — Whatever through the land had seeped Six months ago had gone, to leave Just air and water set in motion Purposelessly. Or so it seemed, until I turned to you and found the wind, Here broken in by beauty, freshly graced, Had 'Spring is here' upon your forehead traced. James McEvoy