Smooth and round, ripples ironed out by the cold, a mirror wasteland. A few white feathers drifting or frozen, quills stuck in the ice, curled and wilting. Surface unspeaking of what lies beneath; secret floes and currents unfazed by the stillness above. Life is going about its business, uptails all in the beak-broken centres, fish and frogs lazing or sleeping, coating themselves in muddy bedclothes till the soporific cold dissolves. Spring will come of course, and the anticipation of greening is everywhere, even in stilted sap and in the bare willow branches, bending over the pool, no leafy tears to cry, all are shed. Time now to rest, to breathe cold mist and sing slow soulful laments over the waters.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015