January Haiku
No spade can dig this
earth. Winter protects itself
from all shoots of change.
Glassy fists of frost
clasp green daffodil throats,
un-spring their breathing.
Flat stone sun skipping
over ice, burning my eyes.
Winter phosphorous.
The hellebore bends
like Atlas, its face purple
with the weight of frost.
An army of ice.
Its endless, stifling shroud creeps
throughout the garden.
These eventually appeared in my debut collection, Turning (Headland, 2011)