The hearth had yet
to warm a toe, an hour
before the paling
The rain had gone
now comes the cold
profound, inactive ,cold
Assumed a duelling clarion
across the mustered aerials,,
slung, humboldt in the jangled dark,
inanimate
In the hush of these ice-bound mornings,
sound travels,
The local lesser-black backs have
a regular tear-up with a couple of herons
that kip down by the frozen willow,
On low-pressure mornings, it's all a bit windy
and lost
In the cold-high-overs it hovers
forever, cupping the lowland with voice