Monday, 21 January 2013

Woodpile




Toes curl, because the floor is cold.

Feet into woollen socks go; socks into welly boots; boots into frozen plains of mud and mottled puddles.


Cattle at the gate, curious, outbreaths steaming.

Here is mud, ice, cut fat twists of old tree. Chainsaw buzz.

Play with foot-shapes: printing in lines: test depths.

Feel the breaking point of the crackled flats: smooth to crunch to thick squish.
Feel the pull on the boot: leave a crazy paved scene.

Sawdust flares, logs drop.

Where the glove was ripped and not repaired, cold takes a bite of thumb.
Sliced to size, wood chunks pile in the back of the scruffy car.
Enough stock for a week.

Fingers, cold enough for now.





2 comments:

  1. Fire up the Rayburn and have a hot cup of tea.

    ReplyDelete
  2. That is exactly what we did Jacqueline!

    ReplyDelete

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