I know I promised you a review of Five go to Finniston Farm, but I’m not feeling great and it’s late, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with this very seasonally accurate poem for now by the grand woman herself.

A Frosty Morning

When the sun hangs low in the eastern sky,
Caught in the trees that shiver and shy,
Red as the robin that flits nearby,
Sing hey, for a frosty morning!

When the lane is a-glitter beneath our feet,
Powered with crystal, delicate, sweet,
And the quiet pond is a silver sheet,
Sing hey, for a frosty morning!

Come out, come out, while the sky is red,
Over the crunching fields to tread,
Ere the frost in the kindling sun lies dead,
Sing, hey for a frosty morning!