Marking our winters together,
first up in the morning checks the embers,
so any vital signs might be rekindled.
Failing that, I journey out to fetch the coal,
perhaps a well seasoned cherry log, our treat,
odour – vermillion. Slipper shod round to the shed,
contemplating cold patterned leavings in the snow.
I consider the teeth clenched path; you warm in tangled bed,
then, lamenting the lazy left last time bucket,
slide down to empty tinker crunch ash,
playing the ice orchestra and wishing above all for wellies.
Darling, the clinker hill reaches the sky,
in far off spring we will push it down
to the ditch below the snow line,
between where we live and the cows.
Swinging up to the house to scrunch last week’s news,
I lay morning sticks crackling from an orange string bag,
then sparingly, the coal, but leave room for breath.
Striking a match I turn on the life support, a tender touch paper,
sharing the conviction that our winter child will thrive.