a last stone?

one last pebble,
if I'm lucky
there will be a quartz vein

and the pool
is dark, is deep

the splash, the ripples,
wait

but it is warm
in my pocket

and there is more
to say

so the pebble
wears smooth,
slowly
on lint

bed head

last summer's cock-comb glory
- ochre spikes,
husked flowers, dried
- their chimes now
only paper thin whispers

held in virgin white

but this Winter Queen
seeks no groom

old shed

sag-boarded,spindle beamed,
bowing beneath the weight
of snow's cap

having lost its bark
to the dogs of winter,
the shed
is naked to the frost

nest

twigs thatched,
a perch bleak

a snag of cloth
from a tattered somewhere

a spit of mud
and three feathers,
two lost, one found

and high in the tree,
waving in winter's maw,
it waits
for spring's tenants

fine snow

sky mist, ephemeral
- filling the blocks
of footprints

mortal transience
has stepped this way,
socked it with shadows

sky mist, ephemeral
- and the prints

are gone

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