~

at the edge of winter the land and sea

verge on being one and the same

black sea white ice black ice white sea

peaks rising fiercely jagged raw

from the waves, snow-faced granite

rock beaches along the inlets coves

gullies of snow drift in soft contrast

fill the valleys, this is an inhuman place

here and there, trees, more twisted trunk

than willowy branch, here and there

clusters of houses piers trawlers dories

nets and traps, all of it barely hanging on

here and there a figure defining the notion

of bare existence barely barely hanging on

all colourless but for faded paint, houses

and boats, otherwise black grey white

but for the stinging cold bringing tears

certainly not of sadness but tears nonetheless

tears on my eyelashes refracting sunlight

into my own private rainbow, the full spectrum

~

i may be overstating the case

a world of sinew strung taut

brittle cold heartless, if it weren't

for the soft underbelly of sea-life

under whitecaps, greenery and buds

dormant under ice snow, on branches

and what lies under quilts

the stories were once written in string

~

cold is working its way

through my soles up my legs

i cannot stand here much longer

the sun is up for hours

low on the horizon

you can't be too long away

give me a length of string

i'll knot the ends and begin

weaving our story on my fingers

as much as i know, but hurry