Dawn. Set wings among your branches, bracken at your feet.
Draw needles through nests, root deeper, shadow breasts.
Fields have spread.
Duff muffed, shed winds, remain refuge, a manger.
The moon rises midday. Darkness swells at half past four.
More snow. Warm hearts slowed sleep deeply.
Midnight leans in,
shims winter boughs, makes space for a slate-coloured child,
not a god,
and stars.
