"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
The range is lit, and in the kitchen we are talking
about men and things that matter.
In the window there are cherries in a dish, and winter.
Night wakes on the hills, goes hunting on the moors
and breathing death to little things.
The snow is wild close by, but leaves us be.
The fairy lights come on. We leave December
crouching on the hillside; head out half-drunk
with word-stained lips, and singing poetry.