Each twig of the willow tree was glued
to a clear twig shadow of frozen dew.
By midday, a one degree rise in heat
loosened ridges of ice to the ground
in showers. They lay amongst the grass
strangely, like transparent razor blades
and glistled as they fell. Under this
gentle fire: two blackbirds and a robin
fought over diced apple, stollen,
mince pie and Christmas cake crumbs.
I stood under the tree like a figure
in a cracked-open snow globe:
a part of this unbound arrangement
that could never happen again.
