Thursday 2 December 2010

The Myth of the Frost-Bringer

and other child-made myths. Like the redwing
who was once a song thrush but grew so cold
that he lit a fire in his own feathers. The hill
full of them feeding their flames with flame-red
raw-red haws. Winter comes fingers-first, a tense
Russian pianist. An egg cracked and spilling
over the head of the hill. A sense of things
dropped from a table, gobbled by ravening
mouselike underthoughts, little helpers
of Morozko, exiles.

No comments: