England, Ice Fixed, White with Rage
From a train, always train, acres of whiteness, and I watch
Past or future, fields of time, seen/unseen, fields of it, the present
Refuses, I only want it more, and gods of modest means,
Not first rankers, not famous ones with monuments
Made to last, just simple ones who cling to earth
For all they’re worth, in hope of temporary displays,
Goldfinch drops kernel of grain, vole nuzzles closer in flesh
Of her flesh. Ordinary gods frantic for toe-hold in a hard frost,
Fearful of low pressure, storm, these gods, I know it, I know,
On the look-out for me. Such temptations, ironies, stillness,
I could make a painting of copse, ash, oak, seen/unseen,
But even if if if, no painting should dare still a living thing.
And poem? All the whiteness of page, its own kind of rage,
I cannot find a start worthy of devotion, an offering,
I too become slush, stains, soon enough, but still,
I should like to say categorical, just once, visibility so bad
Only getting worse. Or maybe just embrace fog, all blurs,
That too shall pass; tree, god, goldfinch, vole, window, glare,
All I cannot see/unsee lifted, a vapour, frost lost
In merest glimpse of sun, white light such, such damnation.