Under starlight, smoke.
A woman kneels snowblue
in a thick deer coat,
already the circling cold
has found entry,
it breathes against her skin
sliding into her bones.
Her three children huddle
teeth drilling in their jaws,
Leaning back against the wind,
she spins her beech pick
through a threaded bow
whistling a sweet note
to the charwood,
to the tinder.
As dusk settles,
An ember answers.
There is nothing outside
the small lip of light.
Life is still
and locked under ice
So she unlocks it lightly
whispering promise
sweet nothings to build
something
A flame hatches
Legs clamber out,
With the crackling tinder
the legs grow stronger
the children moan
as the black heath
grows its limbs and red
