In Particular (Poetry)

The light through the trees this morning
is that particular kind of winter light
slanting sharp and clear
it throws each twig and branch
into detailed relief
heightens colour so the greens and browns
seem freshly painted on by God’s own careful hand
and the perky birds
that flit and flutter perch to spotlit perch
gleam perfect in their cold-pressed uniforms

The frosted grass beneath lies still in shade
asleep and covered thinly-sheeted white
undisturbed — unprinted by
the usual to and fro of feet
for now this small sum of moments stretch
while no one comes and goes
even the buildings slumber
quietly bedded-in — eyes closed
row on row of bricks rose-glazed
by a December sun pretending to be warm