Cold Morning

    Through an accidental crack in the curtain

    I can see the eight o'clock light change from

    charcoal¹ to a faint gassy blue， inventing things

    in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it

    as the water tank has， so nothing flows， all is bone，

    telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

    for any heart caught out in it， just flesh and blood

    no match for the mindless chill that's settled in，

    a great stone bird， its wings stretched stiff

    from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay， its gaze

    glacial， its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped

    on every window， its petrifying² breath a cage

    in which all the warmth we were is shivering.