“In winter I survive”

In winter
I survive on
scraps —
the householder

is always kind
enough to set
some out.
Morsels

of heliotrope
daphne
gorse
bid —

come close
and breathe
our fugitive
breath.

One stolen hour
unhurriedly
I pass
a tree line.

A spare view
unfolds —
barren branches
glean

the last low
sun before
the dusk draws
down.

Tomorrow
my table
will be spread
with

snatches
of robin
and goldfinch
on the nyger seed.

This winter
I survive on
scraps
of treasure —

every ledge
at Midnight Mass
brimming
with tea lights —

more
than satisfied
with gifts of song
and well

content
to bide beside
the simple crib
of well-loved

handknit figures —
the smallest scrap
set full
in the centre.