WILLIAM PALMER

The thaw The pine - a drunk in fine exhaustion - leans out in frost, defying gravity. The birds come back, regurgitating legends to their young.

The bay expands. In the valley behind TVs flicker like slow fires all morning; kitchen windows open; calls from the near spring.

A drink in my hand I walk below a white arch - two rooms knocked through. In their suddenly connected country ants walk under the snow.