I
Obsessed by twilight,
this no man’s land
in the gathering new year,
breaking apart the afternoon
concentration, the prolonged
effort to do and be done.
Even the cold on the street
was welcoming (as
putting on the scarf
finding the gloves)
making ready to enter
the losing light
to greet this break
in the pattern that was work.
Knowing after a short walk
there would be a returning
and things would carry on
as they should,
as they must.
II
A sudden pause
in the weathering.
Hill snow this evening
but forecast tonight
is the real thing,
then a sharp frost.
To be in a distant dale
and watch it falling
in the moonlight,
this snow on the hill
reserved for higher ground,
lonely moorland,
sheltering sheep.
Unless sleep
is foregone
I’ll miss the early
morning falling forecast
and wake to ice,
the frost, and bitter cold:
they say.