ice-burned tongues / clump into celestine’s / eye-blue spar
The horse won’t know how its metatarsal
/ can be whittled by friction with the lake,
/ how the act of skating is part…
The year goes, the woods decay, and after,
many a summer dies. The swan
on Bingham’s pond, a ghost, comes and goes.
/ chan eil mi nad aghaidh a thaistealair ghil
/ tha thu ruith tro mo chuislean mar…
Players, humped as oxen, brood in boxes;
/ One by one stumble from their cages
/ (Lift of gulls, swing and loop and lag
Who doesn’t know I come from Rastušje
/ And went to school in Podvinje?…
/ A winter’s morning. Frost.
/ I’m walking alone from the village.
A single quaver
of loosening ice
extends across the silence,
revives the air
with the almost forgotten song
of snow melting to water