Matfield Pond

Arthritic trees charred with winter,
shadows fallen darkly on the water,
like bent hands thrown up to protect the moon,
as if the sky were poised to beat it with a stick
or depthcharge the beauty with an old chunk of sandstone.

The night is frost with floated leaf
and we are warm with whisky
and the big moon looms, expands beyond belief, gorgeously glows
and the light and the silver and the whisky
are a glaze on the ripple of the fleeting glass.

Stars tremble,
rocking backward and
forward with frost
the lampblack sky is wavering with trickle light
and quietly soft,
and we are warm with whisky.

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