Winter's March

Dawn breaks with pale light pushing angry shadows,
Herding them under wardrobes, behind closed drawers
Where they deepen, dark minds desirous of night.

I rise and sway to the floorboards' creak
Cross to the window, there to see the downs
White in their winter coat of crystal, fresh and phosphorescent.

The morning audience ring the roofs
Starlings, magpies, seagulls preen and greet the light's return.
A short-sighted pigeon puffs and struts at a nervous crow.

Out on the track, the winter plates the puddles with glass
As I trek higher, blowing clouds into the air.
No spirits here, too cold for ghosts without the warmth of blood.

Sheep still crack the frozen grass with yellow teeth
And clear the path as I pass through on mud like rock.
The noon sun lifts and lowers its head, too tired to rage.

Still as a mirror, the patient air awaits a breeze that never comes,
And silent as the cloistered secrets far below, the peregrine
Hangs like a photograph, focused and heavy.

Peaks are reached and paths are crossed as lunar features near again,
Clouds part in reverent awe of that silver disc; great cratered eye,
And I swear I can see it racing across the darkening sky.

Days are short as memories now.
Light leaches away, taking what colour was left of that bleached demesne
Eyes and instincts open wide, amplifying every shadow's breath.

Sometimes you must let go past and prejudice to feel music or art,
So I let myself go to the night, naked and willing,
Exultant, expectant, open and free.