Tuesday, 3 January 2017

Breath


(January 1, 2017)


Up here on the hill, a north-easterly

with ice on its edges

                cuts through

all the way from the Arctic into my bones.



Cold bites in corners — there is no nibbling;

teeth go deep,

                clear sharp bites

sink into the core  to catch the breath.



A bitter sting in the face hardens shivers on skin,

pulls hairs on end as she hauls and thrusts

                her currents

through the layers of my body.



Fresh new air, the cool of new year air,

is driven into my lungs.



And old clouds of grey vapour

                disappear into distance.