Midwinter Night, 2008

Withers wet with evening,
he stamps his hoof just once
on the dark damp earth
towards the last setting sun.

This, the longest of nights
when I lost my way on dark pale drifts
tattered gloves, hands an unfeeling white.

On this, the longest of nights
somewhere the brook must still be pouring
silver black loud in the sound-muffling snow
where a child’s hand cast a snare
freed the fiercely hungry mole –
long since dead, bones like icicle pins
waiting to thaw into bloom.

Mother tongue, cast onto cactus and stone,
mossed over, tasting of sea-salt and iron,
lingering and longing,
yet a thundering sea, roaming, roaring,
breathing, whistling, sighing
through jagged cracks that snag the flesh.

A soul, or things perhaps, is what I would give you
as holding hands we climb in the dark
seeking the sharp shape of the moon
at the top of the bell tower.

On this, the longest of nights
all the wondrous, nameless beings of mind
dragons glimpsed in a flash of lightning
soft sad eyes of grey and green
angels with heavy, tarnished swords.

All caught in a broken mirror
and frozen into a brilliance of crystals.

In this, the longest of nights,
perhaps you too will laugh as you watch the fire burn,
will see other angels and dragons stranger than mine
will smell wood and wax and wind
or think you heard a wolf.

In the very first hint of coming light
you too will descend and see another horse
Withers wet with morning,
stamp his hoof just once
on the dark damp earth
towards the first rising sun.