The river runs thick and silvered with cold
under the harbourage of the willow,
which seeks from its root to drink the hymn
shivering over stone.
A shadow haunts this refuge
with edges sharply cast by dusk,
as the sky recalls violets
between curtains of frozen clouds
and echoes the storm that muted the water,
rent the coupled boughs,
and caused one to yield
to the winds and the rains and fall into the dark;
the other still reaches for the river
with skin bared to frost and stars,
its green treasure taken from open arms
in a hush between birdcalls.
A nest clings to the branches and waits
all through the hollow nights to dream
of a little soul who would sing to the morning
in the first colours of spring.
~~for Anthony
