65

porches, cyclamen -

things english, it occurs, once

I am leaving them

64

like linen stiff still

from the line, kent cabbage furls

and unfurls its stuff

63

branch's curve and leaf 

scatter is sung in our pleats 

and pattern on stone

62

walk after rising

when the sky is lit and sung

by the river's blue

61

 fenced hedges necklace

dry dish of stray sky; landed,
pale blue, down side up

60

animals stray in

ahead of trees, lights and kings

of orientar 

59

we three have travelled 

afar - to ferment, waiting,

sweet juices fizzing

58

yes, you're right, that's snow,

smirched like Christmas when it starts

in late October

57

dropping no needles

they wait while you cogitate

ceiling height matters

56

which way should I go?

through dream gate or round, risking

what kind of forfeit?

55

panicked by marking, 

the park's landmarks reassure

and I count the days

54

through the train window - 

static, solid, see-through, fixed -

panicked land stampedes

53

such slideshows the sun

projects from west, these movies

 much older than Sky

52

biting east wind, sun 

dips at three and snow nearly, 

so nearly over

51

bowling green wins through,

 though the snow tests us still with 

final ink blot games

50

against Hitler, this, 

Kent's bastion - where, thank God

willows flare instead

49

nothing grows, but it 

gives purpose to the lens that

looks or does not look 

48

a hunting snow dog

stalks his prey, waits to pounce - or

is he seeing things?

47

bald dolly cannot

make snow angels in the thaw

but she can see things

46

thaw, and from the earth

spring hopeful heaps, scrabbled by

tiny blind dwarves

45

why the dwarves, why the 

dwarves were painted, why the dwarves

were painted yellow

44

reflected snow light

animates things - frozen still,

but more uncanny

43

Middle Temple; deep,

crisp, even, they bide the call

for sherry at six.

42

christmas comes early

but santa can't cope - it just

snows and snows and snows

41

Boris says there's grit 

enough to last till Doomsday

(or at least Friday)

40

white world, I'm inside

your crystal buildup, cut off

and counting patterns

39

flakes freckle my sky

line, no two the same, and I

spiral curving earth