A prickling, edgeless snowfield,
swelling like held breath.

I stop, settle into deep, creaking
coldness. It soaks through thin wellies,

two pairs of socks. I look back.
My footprints are too small for me.

A stencilled crow, black as ink,
glides low, but will not land.


Coming soon


From And in Here, the Menagerie, Templar Poetry, 2007

© 2017 by Angela Cleland. Created with Wix.com

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