Winter Morning

As crows calculated dark strokes of pointillistic clouds,

Another morning came.


It was a moment –

Bonnard strokes of pallid trees

And ‘Les Nabis’ blurs of still snow.

Perhaps it was a hiss of hot water for tea,

Or steamed-over windows of the vertigo day –

Absent a sun toppled by some worn blankets of winter light.


Perhaps it was the distant fields,

With ice of fallen leaves reflected a final corundum of sapphire hills,

But for a moment I thought you were still here.