549: Our Last Frost in Sussex

08:24 and I am touching that poke of a cold God
under unornamented woods
now contained by us – for the good of us

February is sugared overnight – here underfoot
The stripped hedgerow is briefly lit – crowned
by the blinding hour

Those umber-dipped high stick fingers
touch that very last of His
visible burnt presence

Along a raised path – my short timber route
over flood-expectant meadows – a convenience
for us dog walkers – commuters – drunkards

It has a ship’s complaint under my overweight –
a seaworthy distrust of an unstrapped cargo
My stick a peg leg poke across her slippery deck

Greater tussock sedges – rare Sussex clumps of grass
are green icebergs – gathered – they wait for an onslaught
by knotweed and other foreigner floods in this field

after the cold-breath time has been put aside – quicker
with each warmer year – a woodpecker stopped
in Buxted – 08:32


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