"GAMBOGE LICHEN WALK"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd March 2012.

The wood that walks the path towards the lake has wind-
felled trees, they block the path, we have to make a detour
treading on the top of frosted crystals, a thousand diamonds glow
no more the wooden bridge rocks loudly as we pass, 'tis solid too;

the stubble field of autumn's gold, the lake pale steely blue
in patches where the sun had stolen ice, but not today
it touched the frozen land its hand reduced in strength
until at length midday put out its fan of warm sweet light

I even heard the yellow hammer sing, or was it some other
bird of spring, just there above the tall dry reeds, where moose
have munched the tips off all the trees, where boulders from
ice ages past crack open this transparent layer

resemble volcano's fissures running down into the mass
where booms that sound like doom reverberate across
the white, an eerie atmosphere reanimates night;
here beaver have devoured the twigs of fallen trunks

the moose sharpened his teeth, the hare munched goodies
from the bark, their droppings chains of roundels all about
two owl boxes now down lie open mouthed agape, the gaudy
gamboge lichen glowing new along the aspen branches few

their arms twisting 'gainst the blue, or black their dance,
sticks out of snow, the lake its cracks thin lines so deftly drawn
make Paul Klee coloured patterns where we walk, the rivulets
are frosted friezes at the edge, small birds hide in the hedge

or scan the cornfield for old seeds to cram their stomachs with
some food; the group of oaks, they number four stand silently,
close to the farm with orange roofing tiles, its woodwork painted
white, the barns, as always red, with windows also white;

the pensioners they gather yet, under the tall fir trees
beside the road, they're found there every day sitting on logs
making conversation with the chorus of the birds and beasts,
catching the rays of sunset every year, but not in fogs.