As cold bones creak, the pine trees lean for a
Breath, in torrents of wind – huffing – rushing
down the stack to Grind the timbered teeth of the station deck,
Clenched as the nudging bones in those dead-flat cheeks.
Flint stricken and dumb,
The skeleton hands of the clock
strike on and on, in spite of
Everything grey.
When the hourly train bolts its doors to howl abroad
Little bells tickle the wind above,,,
The visitor Bobs up and down on the signal wire,
Its pink crest flame flickering freely
Coffee-milk chest, frothed-up all-thick
And a blob of red, warm wax seals an arrow’s plume,
Tucked in the wing to lean and inspect
In its eye, the twinkling of Berries
Orbs its glint.
A rowan’s blood fruit,
Plucked, tossed, then
gulped
one by
one
Leaving the branches to spring,
Tickled and bare
A gentleman’s bow
Signals the end of the waxwing’s stop
And at the buzz of gooseflesh skin, at the
Rouse of naked light,
A trail of bells
Scatters across
A peach streaked sky
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