The weaker sun burns low
over stilled marsh and scrape.
Straight-cut dykes glow like
hot metal fissures through indigo.
Heavy boots crunch on ghosted grass,
breaking threats of enveloping silence.
By a glistening gate I pause, to gaze,
the pristine kiss of rime stiffens my hand.
The lone motion is my breath, brief clouds
vanishing in vasty air, to which I am inured.
A bleeding horizon yields dwarfed
silhouettes feigning heat, random skeletal
trees and pylons merely punctuate
before a distant church stump.
A sudden snipe breaks his cover,
rasping furiously over my head,
where I catch fleet Mercury gleaming
bright through icy blue.
© copyright David Francis Barker 2011
* Taken from poetry collection ‘Anonymous Lines’, which can be found here: http://liten.be//nr7n9
** The illustration is from a current painting by the poet/artist, showing the marshland at winter sunset near Boston in Lincolnshire, England.