Winter Visitor

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


one by


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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