November I
Curlew calling calling calling
a hunch of egret and oyester catchers
on the full estuary edge.
Big morning moon
hanging high in the west
still drifting north.
Bands of winging starlings
between me and blueing pink clouds.
The flickering ripple full tide
bobbed by buoys, no boats,
meets heaped frosted flotsam leaves.
Curlew calling calling calling
a copper headland stretched
under the slant of sun rise.
A star of ice where a muddy puddle
almost isn’t.
Cold air nose and fingers
I am part of tide and moon.
I hear the calls of curlew, duck, bluetit
they see me
in a world of time place space
on boggy iced grass
I am standing
In life.
November II
I lie in the bath
where many a misery
has been washed off
the low morning sun
crystals through condensation
carnation steam rises
and light flickers on the wall.
Give up the body battle
and let it be.
Full moon has filled the darkness
from dusk to dawn;
nothing deep to sink into
so ride lightly on the brightness
that is surprising in winter.
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