The Battle Between Frost and Light

IN THE MORNING of winter shadow, 

a night time of ice quills quiver in shrouded anticipation 

of the bright armies of day to come rushing round the edges of things with their spears of sunlight into the battle. 

The gathered halberdiers of winter cast long needle-shadows across the green ice with their weapons,

and the lichen-frosts whisper the crystalline secrets of this very new day. 

Each crack and trill of the waking world asks:

Who will win the battle?

At this cold cusp of a certain point of early,

the blades of frost and light clash and shatter my vision into a million pieces of beautiful.

Tiny corners of our home in sunlight after rain

THIS WAY



There are crisscross shadows on the curtains



The kettle is always on



Green light shines through old wine bottles full of olive oil



And the strings of strange instruments shiver



The sun shines and so the oil lamp waits unlit



Paper plants tremble in the window



And pegs hang thinking about holding up washing



The porthole is a moon



There's dust on the dice



And in the oil paint



Once upon a times hide in unexpected places



And small wire horses gallop across window ledges



Two knarled fellows crouch and grimace at one another



The sun paints colours of India here and there



And wooden eggs nest on string



Birdsong hangs silhouetted



And the sun after rain shines on through our windows