The crunch of snow beneath my feet echoes
across the still, lamp-filled night
as the silhouettes of skaters
dance across the frozen pond.
Above, the spidering wires are lit
by the eclipse of a pregnant red moon.
Trapped in winter’s eternal shell,
I long to burrow down, against the cold,
warm in my double duvet.
In the half light, only the shapes of shadows
seem to matter – not the red-barked dogwood,
tall against my window, not the burst of sun,
dying in the late afternoon grey.
In my dreams, the shadows of your shape
are noticeably gone.