By Howard Wright
The starry track of the sun runs disorganised
across the lake. Snow melt gurgles underwards
to a low stone bridge and a child’s gravel beach …
All gone quiet. Nothing much is alive here,
tree-trimmings and wood-cull, leaf-blood.
Paths close their eyes as the forest thickens.
A mist of dead needles; frizz and corrosion;
a killer cabin, painted red, way back with deadlocks
and steel windows where the road is cut in two,
and the ice-beast, a shy creature at the best of times,
has been caught and is now black snow, baited,
trapped, flayed and disembowelled where it lies.