Frost


Here, on the estuary’s forgotten shore,

away from the road’s tarmac gravity,

the dark begins to pool early against

high boulder banks and the dune’s downslope.

 

Another swarm of dreams is scattering south.

With a luthier’s ear for resonance

and absences, the river channels out

its own meandering echo chambers.

 

Snow stillness; snow silence. And yet no snow:

“Too cold for it”. Deep cold, more than enough

to snuff the stars into a charred blackness

and scorch this great dark bore hole to the moon.

 

Everything is drawn of its ghosts

 

and now the frost begins to populate

this void, creeping from every crack and crevice,

extrapolating brittle feathered forms

so exact
humerus to radius

so intricate
radius to ulna;

each shiny new angle geared for flight yet still grounded come first light of morning.
 
By Simon Smith

 


Simon Smith is a teacher, poet, angling writer and nature writer living on the south coast of Wales in the UK. His first book, a mixture of poetry and angling writing titledRunning with the Tide, was published in 2013 by the Medlar Press.
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