Mother Nature house hunting
by Marion McCready
[ poetry - february 09 ]
Frost-gilded midnight, the air hangs heavy
with snow-stink. Cars wink as street-lights home-in
on hoarfrost. Slow as a Victorian winter
and bitter. Moon tow on tide: waves murmur,
bicker, crest, slap loam then deadline.
The town is in fine fettle, a still-life, a glint
in a satellite's eye or God's perhaps.
Beyond the Firth and town pastures crackle
and catch in moonlight like facets of quartz.
Black face, white face, eyes like lodestars
motionless yet moving anchored to the twilight
owl-light gloaming: a coterie of sheep graze
on field stubble and ruminate. A little further far beyond
polity, customs, mores lies the floodplain
dream homes are built on. A downstream horseshoe
of rivulets are the origin of this gem's snag.
Ignore the parable, re-mortgage my mind,
bury my head, assemble a castle on sand.
And when the river cold-calls on my door-step
I'll not let him in. For sheep think in my living room;
waves die in my bed; and frost creeps up my skin.
