The misty morn peels,
Revealing sentinels of wintery fields.
Tallow rays, like a sweet mead glaze
Healing: a warming haze.
Treading through the meadow, footsteps as light as a fae,
Amazingly, brightening the day,
A pretty, pixie flower called sweet violet
Appears alone, shielded by the sleeping hedgerow
And wrapped with ivy and bay.