Ice-bright

We haven’t seen the sun in days. But when it comes back it will be too bright to face.

Fierce and low and white. And the whole of this tilting world

this flat, glinting, patterned world

will tip into its arms.

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Other Days

All you really care about are clouds.

The way the ducks swim through them.
The way they’ll never fit on any screen.
The way they inkblot the harbour.

You’re sure if you climbed up there you’d touch them.

And you’d live there, after all.

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Mornings

On days like this, the mist-machines
get going early.

The town is shiny with it

but the islands are asleep.
They dream grey dreams
of moon-suns glowing in the depths
beneath the pointed masts.

The harbour polishes the sky

and all the trees say

soon,
soon.

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You know the way

Up the white path. The factory hums beneath you but the snow is made of quietness. Your feet make soft shuffling sounds. You throw back your hood.

Through the guarded gate. The harbour waits beyond, all silver, but sometimes gold.

To where the the islands are frozen and the trees stand sentinel. In a town like this, [...]

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In the Lake District

The water rushes under stone,

The stone winds up the hill,

And the hills cradle secret lakes.

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Glass and Fire

Throughout the town, along the river, trees blaze like strange fireworks.

I photograph madly, trying to catch this briefest of seasons.

If this goes on for too much longer, I fear we’ll all turn to glass.

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Meli on the rocks

The snuggle-car ventures south

past chilled autumn lakes

to the Swedish coast

where strange plants bloom

and the sky is everywhere.

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In Autumn

The trees are gilded.

Even the cobblestones

turn copper

and the harbour is a bronze mirror

for the sky.

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