The Snow Moon
On the night the snowfields above the cottage
became bright maps of somewhere else, we
went up in the crump of our steps.
Capstones of walls charcoaled the white.
The hawthorns prickled it. And a leaping trace below
a dyke was the slots of ghost deer gone into the fells.
There were rags of sheep’s wool freezing on the barbs
and lean clouds dragged the roundness of the moon.
Jupiter shone steady to the south. It was so cold.
And the children threw snowballs, all the time.
My old coat took the muffled thump of them.
The night snow shirred our boots with silk
and our breath hung laughing in the dark.
floods, drained out of woods
the washed earth
…………the water, obedient
…………now back within its bounds
the swans arranged afloat
like quiet china
…………between the trees, snowdrops
…………spread like tablecloths
Jean Atkin has published ‘Not Lost Since Last Time’ (Oversteps Books) also pamphlets and a novel. Her recent work appears in Magma, Agenda, Ambit, Poetry Salzburg, The North, Earthlines and The Moth. She has held many residencies in both England and Scotland, and works as a poet in education and community projects. www.jeanatkin.com @wordsparks