sheena blackhall (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Winter winds are biting,
Etching the woods in shadows.

The paw prints of hunting dogs
Are black stars in the snow

Beyond the icy poles of denuded trees
Even the hawks have frozen
Hanging, still, in the bleak chill of day.

The hill is a perilous stair
Here and there, in isolated pools
Fish blink up through glassy windows of water
The year turns on its axis
Underground, numb snowdrops shiver and wait.