Not ever to open your door to one colour,
raw as Russia in your own backyard,
the shock of a feeling finding its own image
come to stay, so thick about you can shovel it,
the ultimate white symbol at your feet,
a whole winters tracks to know it by.
Nothing to mend a winter wall against,
or for thought-fox to set his neat prints in
when he’s bold to come, or to hold the wonder
of a pheasants tracks through cross-hatch
of sparrow and starling;
nothing to make your little horse think it queer
when you pause with promises to keep
the darkest evening of the year.
Nothing to overtop old imagery.
Suddenly, one night, a bloodless coup.