Ode To Winter by Petra Whiteley

Escape of days, silence of dark cold
decay of hopes, (re)smell the frame -
rain and blood sun leaves, black soil,
naked lungs in trees growing inwards,
root-pulled,
exposed veins and opening gate of long
sharp fingers. Stitched grin of trotting dogs,
huddled silhouettes, breaths muffled behind
the mirrored walls. Clawing at the bricks
in mouth shut motion.
Flimsy pale lips rustling, pushing letters up
wards.  Dry sticks make-belief stripped.
Rattle of dreams - silence asphyxiation
headed. Soft pillows slink snakebite.
 
The bed is hourly Winter - its death is full of life.