Snow Cat

A cat glances through the dusk at snowflake-
beasties teasing past her shallow window slumber.
Catching the flakes in a fish eye’d
dream frenzy, she
eats the tamed indoor air and almost
falls from her winter seat.

Gathering composure,
her body arcs and she glides
into the kitchen to investigate,
jumping effortlessly onto forbidden
kitchen surfaces,
looking for amusement more than
meat.

Now bored and restless from a day
on window watch,
perhaps, she thinks, I will venture out.
Quietly does it through the flap,
risking the cold, ears flattening;
she picks her way down the hidden path
then onto the gate, snow melting
under her warm belly.

Very soon she returns to the house,
walking in her own deep pawprints,
exonerated from hunting duties,
yearning for a cosy blanket;
zest for comfort supplanting other instincts.

Snow Ghost

Behind the softest shift of snow
Beneath the winter weather
Beyond the places people go

There treads a pretty little girl
With hair of white and sparkles
And slippered feet, and hair a-curl

Then quietly stands and waves at me
That little ghost, upon my word
A friendly face you too may see

When snowflakes cover up the world.

Breakfast

Walk out with me in morning feet,
along the edge of spring,
still steeped in snow, our woollen coats
pulled hard against the wind.
There, gowned and slippered, see she stands,
Nature is summoning the land,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She holds the sunlight in her hand.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
and catch the swooshing loud,
of Nature smoothing cotton sheets
and plumping  pillow clouds.
She lifts the verdant grass to grow
and lusty, showered in the dew,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
will dress our  hillside all anew.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
to greet the waking day,
when preparations are complete
and humans on their way.
Our breakfast on the quilted hill
a secret unrevealed until
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She sweeps our breadcrumbs from her sill.

 

The Inside

I have done a lot of thinking

about the inside of things.

.

Today I built a dome

one foot square

and solid snow.

.

Inside were the animals

I would have made

if the snow didn’t

get stuck on my gloves

and crumble in my hands.

.

 a moose

and a mole

.

The moose had long, strong legs

and an intelligent, wet nose.

He put his head down

into the snow

and nuzzled

until he found a piece of green,

then chewed thoughtfully

whilst contemplating the upstairs window.

He seemed surprised

that humans

have such long legs

they need windows that high up.

.

The mole poked his snowy bonce

out of the tired ground

and peered with blind eyes

upon the bright sky.

I think he was glad

I would have made him.

.

I have thought a lot

about the inside of things.

Fire

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.