in its cold, laced sheet.

Now, delirious bells

shaking this small spare room

on Christmas morning.

Winter’s Tale

Tell she is well in these arms;

synonymous, her heartbeat to mine;

the world a little room; undone

all hurt; her inbreath, breath,

love where death, where harm, hope,

flesh where stone; my line – O

she’s warm! – charm, blessing, prayer,

spell; outwith dream, without time;

enchantment tell, garden from grave

to garland her; above these worms,

violet, oxlip, primrose, columbine;

she wakes, moves, prompted by her name.

Snow

Then all the dead opened their cold palms

and released the snow; slow, slant, silent,

a huge unsaying, it fell, torn language, settled;

the world to be locked, local; unseen,

fervent earthbound bees around a queen.

The river grimaced and was ice.

Go nowhere –

thought the dead, using the snow –

but where you are, offering the flower of your breath

to the white garden, or seeds to birds

from your living hand. You cannot leave.

Tighter and tighter, the beautiful snow

holds the land in its fierce embrace.

It is like death, but it is not death; lovelier.

Cold, inconvenienced, late, what will you do now

with the gift of your left life?

Crunch

It’s snowing! Twelve, she runs outside into the cold.

I follow from the kitchen, in my hand an apple

I was about to peel and core. She squeals, loud,

snowflakes melting on her tongue, then topples

down, cartoon joyful, brightly young. Here come the dogs,

hilariously perplexed, barking at the ghosts of plants,

biting the sky. Last weekend, burglars came – Be drugs,

the policeman said, or credit crunch – taking their chance,

the Visa, chequebook, presents underneath the tree,

laptop, TV. I watch snow deepen, settle hard,

like … which simile? Like debt? Like poverty?…

imagine some gloved hand insert my useless cards

into the wall, that other life; then What’s for lunch?

she bawls. I throw the apple, happy, hear the crunch.

A Goldfish

I bought, on a whim, a goldfish for a good girl.

It swam in an antique bowl in the kitchen there,

creative among the lentils and the marmalade,

painting itself over and over, self-portrait in liquid;

learning its letter, O for oxygen, for only.

It seemed fulfilled;

the halo of its constant swim unrolling a pond

below willow trees, an imperial palace garden

where the poet sat, floating on silence; a mouth opening

to gold: walking towards her, carrying fragrant tea,

her beloved, favourite child.

Music

Do you think they cried, the children

who followed the Piper, when the rock

closed behind them forever; or cried never,

happy to dance to his tune, lost

in the music?

And the lame boy,

pressing his ear to locked stone

to carry an echo home in his head,

did he weep, alone, the melody gone? Tell me

who hasn’t tossed a coin in a hat

for the busker on blues harmonica, heartbreak

in the rain;