head of steam

a scoop on a stick,
gloved hands, thick coat
and a great head of steam

but I am no railway,
simply the un-stoker
of snow on a deck

winter stream

there is a stream
flushing the hillside

the salt, the grey-brown
vomit of winter spurned
by traffic
and municipal sand

it hides
beneath the arched cap,
a vaulted snow

secret

for a while

Freeze!

hours spent in the crawl space
chasing thickened water
through black plastic pipes
with a hair dryer

nothing quite like
the run of clear liquid
unfrozen

but what
do watching spiders think?

far sounds

a thing of plastic
filled with magnets
and radio,
electronics

and my Mum's voice

miracles all

I saw ...

grass greened in hope,
bunched beneath the wait
of winter

skin

chill
in the air
but the crystals
are beneath
the layers,
hidden

you will
unwrap them
inside, afterwards,
melting the prickle
points of tingles
back to
skin

destiny

they are jumbled,
this stack -
oak, basswood,
beech, pine,
the white-blonde curls
of the birch

thawing over a vent
grateful
for the warmth

oh,
if only
they knew ...

what is ... and is not

paper, screen

it is all
sans something

ink, words
flat, untextured

blemishes and excuses
for lack
of my definition

the eye
does not

see it all

held

their fall frozen,
icicles

wait

as if
they

had
for
gotten

some

thing

got it covered?

mittens too big
for possible hands,
the feminine coat marches
up the hill, through the snow

wonder if its owner
knows?

winter moon

the moon was high, watching
hatted with light
and a
s
c
a
r
f

that
dangled

news from the sky

they are flake whispers

from places, times


events washed, evaporated
maybe even dashed

and some
are heavier
than they look

four finches

a mayhem of calls,
a madness of shred,
a scatter of husk

and four finches
who will not
tidy their room

Village hill

a tyred labour,
seasonal rubber
from warmer places

there may be a key,
but not to this door

winter's coat

it is a veneer,
a breath
of chill,
worn like skin

this cold

bottoms up

a mug , 'Jersey'
from a son on his travels,
coffee, Colombian
ground, glowing
brown

and I

wistful, wondering
if I am
or if I'm not,
here or there,
or now and then
and what and why and how

and the answer is never
in the bottom of this cup
but maybe the next

shelves

bowed beneath the weight of words
books - read, unread
authors - dead, undead

and I am sharpening my brain
as if it was some fine pencil

aspiring to write
something hopefully
not too
leaden

tracking winter

there are tracks, punched
through the crust of rime
paws, pads, hooves

I can measure the width,
the stride

estimate the degree
of the trespass

wonder at the bulk and the size,
the why of a leg
dragged here
and there

the empty, barren yard
in the howl
of winter

is not

Night logic

if you drop a pebble into the middle
of a pond
you do not wonder
if anyone hears

if you drop a pond into the middle
of a pebble
you don't wonder
if you're dreaming

Bird's high view

It is a stark crucifix
in an ice blue sky
sliding the heavens
on the crank
of winter's wing

paperback hero

he slaughters weasels and orcs
along with Toad and Frodo,
he will tread
the heaving mists
that guard the fetid damp
clinging to the dragon's jewels

he knows the intimacy
of buckling a leather belt,
the swing of honed steel,
and the poor shelter
of a shield in the wall

and he can feel the pride
that comes
with standing at the crest
holding a blood spattered standard
while wearing the gore
of the vanquished

he does not herald
his accomplishments
nor feel the cut of pain

until he must put the book down
and wash the dishes
before the suds are cold

and curses at the prick
of a hidden blade

on the gate

there is smoke
in the air,
dirt in my veins

and the rev
of the bikes,
hunched on the gate

peaks

with my heart


the gate drops
and my hand twists,
i breathe

and wish this was more
than tv

the blaze of old summers

birch, shedding pages
of its summer, curls bright
blazes quick
while beech, smooth skinned,
unruffled
charms you with a slow
smoulder,
adds a layer of guilt
to the warmth

stubborn oak,
holding on
to its secrets
until
roaring, it spills
the rage of summers

Gulp

It is honed, polished

my eyes are dotted
and my tea is cold

I fear that I left
far too much man
and you
out of the script

and the plot ...

well, we'll not talk about that
I had one once,
somewhere

swallowed with a gulp
when the agent asked
for the whole

but it is gone, sent

a press of a key

and the watch of a bar
crawling across the screen

damn, but I need a drink
and the Darjeeling
is not going to quite
hit the spot

Lonely pup

there are only
one set of prints
in the snow

she does not look back
to where the second
used to pad

there is a dull ache
in that crisp definition

she would rather
not see

Wasn't it a Wednesday?

it's kind of flaky,
this stack of days

wintered, squalled

iced, baked, then iced
again

drifting into the bank
of memory

where time's erosion
may white it out