Winter morning in
Basket Range
The last of the night is still pressed against the windows.
Slowly, what had been birdsong becomes a set of distances
so I let the dogs out and pour a jug of water
over the cheap panes of ice on Andrew’s windscreen,
clouding the thick pewter air with my caffeinated breath.
I’m cold and stamping, pudged like a sausage with layers
that will feel too warm by noon. I clip the dogs to the
leads
and thumping their hollow sides while crooning songs
of nicknames we scuff through the light silvered with fog
to the tiny post office that opens for just one hour a
day.
The dogs lap at their puddled reflections while I chat to
Brian
then we turn for home, toes curled over the brink of the
day.
As the pale sun climbs over the ridge, frosted windows gleam
and the road sleeps in the quiet spaces between the trees.
The day opens - all the beautiful possibilities blistering
inside me.
I was completely immersed in this evocative poem. :) And what a terrific Gothic landscape shot.
ReplyDeleteLovely, Rachael. I love the last line. And I really enjoyed being in the company of this poem. I felt like I was going for a walk with you and your dogs - a lovely prospect!
ReplyDeleteYou almost make me nostalgic for southern winters. I experienced some like that, before moving to the sub-tropics. Yes, as Efi and Lisa said, wonderful photo and gorgeous conclusion to the poem.
ReplyDeleteLovely poem and photo. Makes me want to go bush walking.
ReplyDelete