Blake’s walking stick
the knob of the walking stick
shaped into a claw
clutches a wooden egg
it has no leg or body
no idea what sort of creature
it was
or if the egg is for food
or being protected
the carver might have known
perhaps set a
chicken or egg paradox
in blackthorn
it joined the hand
that polished it
to ground
through woodland paths
and clouded hillside
an electric connection
that sparked the muse to life
winter in the wood
its still winter in the wood
traces of last nights snow
hang on in the shade
and everything has that
slow sleepy feeling even the
shadows freeze you as you walk
into them
birds perch
on bare branches
hunched against the icy wind
and an owl waits for moonrise
down in the meadow earlier
I saw that things are changing
the tips of shoots are showing
the first signs of new growth
birds in courtship displays
flew low and fast across
the football field
but this evening there is only me
and Charlie
across the fields
among darkening clouds
the first lights show in Liverpool
and in Wales the mountains catch
the last red light of the sun
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