Last night came a dream of hoarfrost

or rather the name itself and the image it conjures -

something biting, cold, and natural in its bare comfort,

existing as a cipher for seasons.


The night before I stumbled through an old Tudor village

and I searched for you under dawn's coming slake,

peering into stables, over the bales, I could

not find you, perhaps you skipped town

taking the eastbound carriage, and I followed

feverishly into an awakening…


It was now late in the morning

and work had taken you far away from here,

and I stood out of bed into a shrinking world…