a huge yawn of the sky-mouth
that shouts wind and ice
winter warms for Christmas
in its cauldron of cold.
A fox nudges snowflakes
with his feather-soft caress of nose.
He dream-drinks each
to the icicle sharpness of both eyes
and enters invisibly
in a fire of red fur-glow.
All is one.
All merges in the
stall of this moment. Snow again
There is a man, iron-strong,
walking in this moment.
His snow-crow hair is like a scarf
around head and neck,
and he moves in the wind-hover
like a ghost.
When he speaks the hills tremble.
“This is Christmas,” he intones
in an earth-tremor voice,
holding in his hand the scent of fox
like a glove: fur-warm, snow-soft,
and this man in its cauldron of cold.
Fox is still watching,
indelible paws never growing old.
[Written in memory of Ted Hughes who died in this year]