Sunday, 26 December 2010

It is bright sun

ice crystallizing the bricks

breath of steam, the only moving cloud

The birds are back.
At least six kinds
The birds are back.
Stacking their claim to holding onto sound

I listen like a dull grey seed hugging my winter self.

A shard of shadow pierced with light reaches under the barn door.

 Must walk home.
Holding tense against the ice
gentle          cautious             careful

Hold it tight.