January tidings

The wind whips through,
takes you on a mighty sail that carries you
further than I can go
out, out, beyond the bleeding moon to a sun broken, cold morning,
losing height, bouncing on Heather and Cyclamen and Galanthus fingertips long,
and fallen and groundward,
touching the new shoots of Narcissus and Anemone and Foxglove
noticing the season, knowing it's too cold to spread
Sweet Pea or Mignonette, knowing it's too cold
for new things to thrive. You see a bird,
singing, in a hazel above you, a warbler or pippit,
chirping, chirping
and alone. A wind sweeps you up,
allowing you to enjoy the Camellia flowers,
the holly berries,
the witch's hazel and down,
down to the stream that falls to the left, with white bells and blue bells a-coming,
over and down to a small pond,
where a Little Egret wades, through the rushes,
the rushes and out
onto flat salt water where swans are courting
beside a harbour of boats moored in the cold, cold water,
your fingers touch the wet, then your elbows, your shoulders,
your head,
baptised in the salt and the bitterness and the swell beneath the bridges of old,
the bridges that bind one county
to another
and you sink, in a depth of water so heavy,
so slowing
until you are no more than eyes open
watching other life make tracks,
a flock of magpies pass over head -
their bodies are distorted.