​JAnuary thaw
​

I make a list of the things
that mean winter

—ships in the harbour,
their names dark

against the dark
—tree limbs a sound

like rolling pins,
clacking like ship’s tackle,

the brook gone quiet
as if it had gone dry,

January like July
—water pressed

beneath ice like oil
—a wall falling apart

in some thicket,
the dead ironstone

rain worn, root clawed,
lichen spackled

—leaves clung to the ground
like pinched skin

—wild apples froze
the colour of brick

—a lake a field
crossed with paths

—the tub filled with hot
water, a smell like rain

beneath the stopper,
then draw a line at the bottom.

Thaw meant the end
and it wasn’t yet spring.