That winter the snow kept rising,
a slow white wall climbing the windows,
each morning untouched,

I’ve been reading about ghost apples.
They are a real phenomenon, like how
everyone we can see on the wide street
outside this building is still living,

I tried to work from a van. Sitting in the passenger
seat listening to a guy whistle. His frown, a cloud
he lost when his mother died. Each wrinkle

Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands.

at the cider farm, eight minutes
before handover, we strike on
feeding the donkeys –

to embrace you is like clasping
a fist full of briars

What were these fairies called
before we knew of hummingbirds?
Bumblebee moth because of the size?
Reed-nose moth because of the proboscis?

On Diamond Hill
 
I didn’t
think of you once
as I climbed
 
past stunted willows
straggles of gorse

Matter cannot be created and it cannot be destroyed.
I think of this as I pour the almost white ash from
the green plastic container that came in the post
into the vibrant red metal urn I have ready.