The fens are iron slabs,
steeled plates welded to black earth, slammed
down by the press of sky,
rivetted into place by ice nails.
And a north wind shrieks, and
sedged fingers tear breath from brittle
lungs, clasping the throat
in a metallic grip.
Hoar frost cauterizes the eye lid,
lenses burn blurred impressions of
flat fatigue; a merlin
scythes the air like a razor.
Thoughts freeze, solidified
by rime, time passes,
slips or snares, time whispers
to icicled cheeks, searing red the flesh.
Life unhooks, strips to bone,
like meat dangling from ribs,
carrion.
The fens watch, a mortician’s slab,
landscaped alabaster, or marble,
a place of echoes for the dead, dead
flat, uncompromising, deathly quiet,
a half-moon wobble, plasma drips
in the cup of wounds, memories
spark across a corncrake sky, earthly
revolutions too numerous to count elapse.
Snow begins to fall
in holy concealment, smothering lanterns
in reed beds where the
bittern sleeps. The stone of frosts grip
penetrates, chills, and chides, flakes of onyx pierce
a mind benumbed by cold.