A Winter Morning
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! (Lear)
My heart forgets …
(Burns, ‘A Winter Night’)
The globe has got its change on and frost
the artificer has strolled
madly through the world with a cold
deliberation, nothing so small
that it escapes his notice – the slightest
grass blade has been tooled to a sceptre intense
with the proliferate edges of brilliance –
trees are locked
into shock-
headed cabinets of perfection,
every surface super-rich with detail, the fractal
entail of ice and ice and ice.
A sparrow starts past, and then a pheasant:
oranges lurid as a child’s drink spilt
on a tablecloth, it is terrified
of the new broom felt
at its back.
I expend an ounce of the sun
in yellow rebellion, the snow-face steams
and records it.
Thank God I’m not sleeping out.