Winter

How sad the winter is. Like a wick, burned, in water. Sorrowful figures fend the cold off, shrilly whistling and rubbing hands together.

Among the clusters of unswollen buds discoloured grass and hard brown shoots stands the tall A of a telegraph pole.

Birds of the hedgerow muster. Aging walls creep to the silent places on the hilltops.

Suddenly, granite needles of sleet slide down. A grey and wandering flake stops at my wrist.

Lit by the last year’s April’s phantom light a bootshaped cloud rides the elm copse.