simonhlilly

December, Towards Solstice.

The silent sky opens upward
Right to the cold edges of space.
The ground sinks into the waters,
Its weight, another’s years folding.

Now is winter’s river:
Flowing fast and deep
Over all, through all,
Between fire and distance.

Hedgerows are neat and black,
Barns stacked full,
Land drains cleared
Of two months rotting leaves.

The long low light of day
Points to shadow’s reach
But cannot quench them.
It slides off hillsides,
Skims deep valleys.
It declines to matter.

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