For the dark days
I take the darkest shade of a January sky.
Yes, that one in the North corner by the gas-works
and place it in a box.
It squats, heavy and square.
I lift the mist
from the shingle,
lay this over the cube of sky.
I gather tendrils of hill rain
washing their busy path to waterways
and I put these in the left hand shadow,
they unravel and slouch their way across the base.
I fold fog the way my Mum taught me
and slide it down the side of the block,
gather up sturdy loops of greyed marram.
I cup my hands and scoop slate-coloured ice from The Colne
and lay it in the grass. Goose-feathers float in too.
I wait, for these greys to hatch,
To bud, to sprout, to call.
Until they invest the landscape
With the scrabble of mustard yellow chicks.
This grey ice will feed the valley
with a hundred shades of green
once this place West of Huddersfield
swims in summer again.
A turned corner will bathe my mind
in the surprise
of the first bluebells.
If it doesn’t get light today,
think of this ice
the grass, the mist,
the feathers, the rain, the fog
and the way they nestle
in this box
that promises colour.