sheena blackhall (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Moon snags on branches,
Stars are snow seeds
Blown across the black-bull hide of night;
Earth catches paw-prints
Thudded down by the hare
Where frost has touched his
Furry pads with fire
The ace of clubs, inked in four times

By freeze-black 3am.
There is nothing to do
But follow the hands of the watch
On their creeping course.

The world is inside out,
The not-there river
Flows in its sodden trench.

Nothing to do
But stew in the mind's juice,
Leaving the eyes ajar
For Sleep to enter.

He is not far off,
Shuffling, clearing his throat,
Adjusting his tie,
Wiping his feet at the door.

An owl hoots,
Closes his tawny wings;
His sooty feathers rustle
Into the oak.