Oily snow clings to roofs; Perused by two ducks, flying high Above a frozen river which Unites the banks of a village.

Birds; black dots, bent-beaked shadows Perch on snow-blanched branches, The bark-gloved fingers  Of the sleeping trees.  

The villagers play on the winter ice And secretly entice the birds To gather, perch and feed Beneath an old wooden door.

Hunger’s companions, the red-breasted birds peck at a shadow of food on the snow. They flatter the winter with their plumage, Ignored by all. 

A prop elevates the Damaclean door above them. Frozen like the picture, the dead-fall in Perpetual abeyance allows their fire to burn in the cold.

Paul Holland