February Ends

cadaverous skies
gaunt and cold between the clouds
mock the coming spring

Under The Trees

five sisters stopped me
in my tracks
so that I should
witness their own,
mine so earthbound
among their rotted
clothes,
the very same
that they discarded
only months ago
when no longer
in season.
I can but tilt
my head back
to watch in envious
wonder at their naked
skyward dance
so effortlessly
choreographed.

The Black Flood

the tarried mere has broken free
darkest winter waters seep
to spill around the ivy’d trees
and thus them in its prison keep
poisoned black inclarity
blood of life and acrid death
to burn the relentless decay
as moss and lichen staunch the breath
from each branch and leafless bough
veins infected lost to new spring
as these ascerbic waters now
do but eternal winters bring.

Quiet Hedgerows

December hedgerows dark
cold and without life they seem
yet they beat and fly and wing
beyond any midwinter’s dream
of a summer birdcall fancy
for these short days still have their lot
and though the songs are quiet now
their melodies are not forgot,
so grieve not the silent passerines
as after winter follows spring
surely as morning clears the night
and in that dawn the birds will sing

Winter Morning (1)

he watches blackbirds
harvesting rowan berries
from the tree of life

December Blue

crystal crack’d the marshes
frost blackened birch trees
still as ancient marble,
memorials not to their decades
but to the star crossed
cloudless night just passed

there are blue grey diesel fumes
on the frozen air of dawn
this perfume takes me back
to simpler winters
of a younger world
before each year before was lost.

Iron

I feel the weight
of iron winter
being forged
beyond the far hills,
autumn’s peace
its ferrous haze
is but the glowing fire
of some eternal smith
forming blades
to slaughter this fall

Moss

January moss
nourishing the forest boughs
until the springtime

Drowning Season

this drowning season
winter submerging passions
the summer promised

Day’s End In December

the sun’s dalliance with this midwinter’s day
comes to nought as short hours slip away
into the dead December evening
where time is buried lost to grieving
night.
Night, moonless and forgetful night
wherein expectation’s hopeful lights
decay in the dark to entombed death
as year’s end’s scythe rips o’er the earth