When we in bleakest winter wait,
when rain falls hard,
where shivering bones meet
in the clutches of sodden graves.
Where we in bleakest winter wait.
By wooden steps,
fields, muddied green and brown,
drenched toes watered in our wake.
Tarred lungs moan
heavy breathes ghostly dim.
Petal lips crack, disintegrate;
lone hills call,
rough-sketched, jutting
peaks etch blackened slate.
When we in bleakest winter wait.
Blood thick drops slow
from heart to heavy hands
to swollen feet and crippled gait.
To the churning soil;
lone thistles crown and bow
to the procession of the days.
Deep wrinkled faces,
cast of marbled rock, cut
air and rain and light and break.
Where we in bleakest winter wait.
The fox’s furs lie
strewn, hollow, whimpered, grey,
skewered with emerald blades.
Chattered teeth, satin
lined jewellery box,
white sharpness dulled, are encased.
In black air skies,
moons make – and are remade,
pacts to never return today.
When we
in bleakest winter
wait.