Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o'clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night had to be for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood no match for the mindless chill that's settled in, a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped on every window, its petrifying breath a cage in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
Oystercatchers in Flight
Sea’s stony greenblue shatters to white
in a running swell under noonsky of cloudlight
where on a foamed-over cropping of rock
a band of oystercatchers faces all one way
into a nor’wester so shafts of windlight
ignite each orange beak in this abiding
tribe of black till you clap and their risen black
turns white as they veronica on wind and
then away with them (shrill-pitched as frighted
plovers only harsher more excited)
and riding the stiff wind like eager lovers straining
into its every last whim: its pulsing steady
heart-push in every flesh-startling open-eyed
long-extended deepening sea-breath.