Blue bruised morning.

Driving sleet, stun of orange above the Wytham Woods skyline. The road has become a single track. Traffic vanished. Ghost Poet on the CD and so many others in my head. Those haunted lines, picking me out again. Swing the wheel. Career across these sodden fields and keep on going.

So many winters.

Winter Morning, Ben Wyvis

small birds
criss-cross the electricity lines,
follow the pylons
to the snowy moor

a burn in spate,
swirl of downhill reflections,
frosted greens,
icicles clinging to rock

we sit awhile,
me and two ptarmigans
little white puffs of melancholy,
buffeted by the wind

anything up there in the mist?
who knows,
which seems
to be fine all round

           don’t light the fire just yet
           let last night’s embers cool,
           we’ll curl up soon enough
           when the gloom is late on the day