Pan in December
Cold sweeps this place, fen hungry.
Swans are distant silences, dipping,
sailing half furled. Birds crust the bank.
Ice stitches sedge and path. We walk
the straight track but the going is tough:
segmenting wind stalks our blood.
A grey lid traps the raw sun in its rim;
defeated, the trees fling up black arms
stabbing, staggering into the marsh.
We locate the wide washlands, watch
the wren springing twigs at hand, see
frozen land, nothing’s hand slapped flat.
Breath cracks his throat: he is
this crushed stem iced into the reeds
the goose flapping, atheist curlew cry.
Page(s) 9
magazine list
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