The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

 

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

 

The picnic basket lies neglected,

by the frosted window the gingham collects dust;

a locket on the mantelpiece

is now immortalised in rust.

 

The ragged daggers of ices on the eaves

occasionally plummet and shatter;

the cold has silenced bird’s chatter;

alone, she ponders her heart.