It is so cold ice has formed
In my boots while
Frost-bitten snow crunches
When you walk the short
Distance to water
Gathering ice in a pail

Ochre, the morning sun lies shrouded
By mist, casting no heat
As the birds do not cast
The imprint of their feet
Upon snow:

The rose cutting juts
Above white there
Where last week I buried
That car-killed cat and where a leaf
Unfurls in
Intimation of Spring

Over the tree, a crow
Calling:
Nothing answers
Awkwardly I amble through the cold
While ice forms on my face:
Slowly
A crake awakes
To life

DW Myatt