The Third Morning

is a steel cage;

existence switched over

into Survival Mode, -38,8 C°

and falling

as Sun-Up approaches

under Venus & the Constellations,

breathing mask on

as we head out to feed the wood burner

in the garage building across the yard,

and see to the horses,

kept in the stable with extra portions of hay,

Anna and I feeling like two figures

out of Stanislaw Lem's Solaris

when we utilize sleeping bags in bed

and wear woollen caps on the toilet

when seated to defecate

The Third Morning

has a steely gamelan going

across the land

when the bleak dawn breaks

in a silent, all but imperceptible swell

behind the jagged coniferous horizon,

the low Moon a fairytale afloat

in its one-eyed stillness;

the heat of neighbouring wars rumoured

in sayings passed 'tween generations,

the cat meditating everything into palpability

The Third Morning

builds up

in the silent intensity

of unavoidance;

bodies no safe havens no longer

without high quality Icelandic wool,

as time freezes over;

the people of the North gathered

by their wood stoves

like their stone age ancestors

by their cave fires;

The Third Morning

a Definite Place in Space;

life itself a January Force Majeure