THIS winter has brought both wind and frost.

Here is Andrew Young's lively description of the mischievous impact of the former (from his Selected Poems, Carcanet, £9.95).

A WINDY DAY

This wind brings all dead things to life,

Branches that lash the air like whips

And dead leaves rolling in a hurry

Or peering in a rabbits' bury

Or trying to push down a tree;

Gates that fly open to the wind

And close again behind,

And flowers that are a flowing sea

And make the cattle look like ships;

Straws glistening and stiff

Lying on air as on a shelf

And pond that leaps to leave itself;

And feathers too that rise and float,

Each feather changed into a bird,

And line-hung sheets that crack and strain;

Even the sun-greened coat,

That through so many winds has served,

The scarecrow struggles to put on again.