Icicles like never before.
I could get used to breathing like this,
a feathery language.
It is now fine to wrap yourself and go,
anywhere, upstairs, to the stars.
The moon has a new dead ring.
A cat enters with a frosted beard,
enters your dreaming, refuses blank stares.
Stairs, stars and stares. This is your winter.
Liking its efforts, snow won’t stick.
Later is no longer in the dictionary of snow,
this blue makes present even recent mistakes.
The secret is a little egg white, the taste of kelp.
This is how even stars spread themselves thinly.
You wear your coat inside.
Cathy Cullis, England