Lichen dusted bows stoop down to brave the wash;
by Paul Murdoch
Infused with mossy rootlets of Larch and Birch and Ash.
The chill of dawn is sharpened and icy light drawn down,
Beneath the winding Ivy, and Holly’s jagged crown.
The Dipper bobs, alert and bright; then dives below the hue,
To re-appear amongst the foam and splash the frosty dew.
The Wren and Dunnock disappear ‘mongst broken limbs and leaves,
And silver strands reveal a trace of god beneath the eaves.
So take the air and feel the kiss of winter on your face.
A sudden sight, a tortured light, that strives to find its place.
With every dawn we sleep beyond, man fails to comprehend,
That winter in its glory, is really our best friend.