Daybreak

Fields are fresh as frozen peas 

in the marrow-cracking cold 

of morning, hiding inevitable  

beyond the night, with its 

phantoms, and legends and

foxes trotting the perimeter 

of the coup;

yellow teeth, carrion breath

rough brush, persecuted dog 
under the Hawthorn. 

We creatures survive the night

of a harshly withheld Spring;

the longed for kiss, 
with its moist life-giving warmth,

and in the weak light 
of this daybreak, we break 
for the edges of our ancient 
cultivated space, 
holding on for dear life

reaching in our game of 

Blind man’s bluff, for hands 

that even in this cold, 
and in this light, like curdled milk,

might guide us towards something 

fruitful; the nourishment, the eternal 

drumbeat, chasing spooks from 

impenetrable thickets of yew,

making new light of what until now 

appeared to be a terrifying fortress

on an unforgiving hill, 
but which suddenly looks like home, 
with the first fires of morning
sending woodsmoke up 
in an insistent gesturing wave.