flurries
under the willow
spangles of light

I bring home from my walk a feather, filaments of crystal like a dance of frost against a window pane. It whispers on the surface, conjuring up a lake long frozen over, thaws it softly into waves of ballerinas,childhood idols all bewitched to curved white water birds. And now these mornings by the river . . .

black ice
standing on the pool's centre
a swan