First frost, late
The winter when it
comes brings frozen flames
and glow borrowed from the needle
strewn floor
The sloes have gone
bruised, lost,
chalky skin darkening at a rubbing thumb
and before them the blackberries
and the hairy hips and the hawthorn
It will be months now
before I can find things in hedges
The other day there were mushrooms
but they weren’t quite right
Nothing happens
Trees still have
their leaves and the air
its fug
But the frost crunches in the morning
and the sky is huge and slate grey
or else bright
bright blue
at night there are
some stars
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