Winter, Wounded

Go ask the cold

Find what the hinters birthed.

The tracks in the snow will inform you

Interloper wounding the winter.

Creaks in the attic

Spell a missing name.

He’ll leave the rafters soon

There’s so much work to be done.

The domesticated wilds.

The young we brought to heel.

They’re patrons of the pantomime now

They know how he really feels.

Now, whilst no one is looking

No one but the cattle.

Histories become uncontained.

Tools fill their purpose.