Skids

Half the country hit the skids when we did,

and whilst our turning world went supplicant

to Christmas pictures

and the cold closed in,

and those with time to think stripped shelves

to nourish their plans, even as families careen

into frosty ditches

scattering wishes

I say this to you; there’s no other traffic on the road

and six gears to play with, so turn the wheel again 

pull out of the skid,

with forgiving traction

there’s enough grit here to soften the toughest conditions

and in any case, the thaw comes even as the ice hardens

The Sometime Voices

I can hear those voices again

And I don’t know them sweet or everlasting,

But loud enough and clear,

Like an alarm in  electronic mockery of the matins

Calling the sleepy, devout and the needy

in from the playful arteries of sleep

In that chaotic choir, your voice raises

Always higher, by an octave, soon to sooth and bid

Those sometime hectoring voices to be still.  

Door

Another cold day, over grey

and I take the sandpaper in unsteady hands,

to smooth the edges of an old door,

unhung for months now, leaving folk free 
to walk between our rooms,

scattering their remarks like bird seed

for two lost children to follow.

Later, when I get that door up,

another turn of the screw,
and the box of tools handed to you,

we’ll shut it and plan for a lock

fast enough and firm,

to keep our heat in.