Winter, the Summit
This mountain stirs
and turns towards
the cool side of the bed. The
knotted-sheet leaves
lose their fight,
succumb to mud.
These crags and pools
glaze white as one, grown
ancient bedfellows; a silhouette
of sleep still clings to long-lost
folds of rock.
Dawn spreads its cautious haze
on you, new silk-veiled
ache. We love as jays waver
their full weight on high twigs;
lay pearl-eggs in the greyest husk
of trees. We tread frost tentative
for seeds, half-blind with instinct,
know they’ll sprout one day.
For now, we fly, and buffed
by tiny breaths cough clouds
above the town.
The sun has cooled, and in their homes
important specks of men doze on.
Imogen Cooper is 24 and lives in Shropshire. She is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Birmingham.
The Kindling 