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.
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