There is grey in the blood of day
and the day is dying – wounded snows
lace and scar the horizon and tracks
the lead into the white woods
stop just dead of the woods.
Night is falling like a blue blanket
flapped out over white sheets –
soon the lights will dim and only
the fading inscriptions of crows
will remain on the virgin snow.
A stray dog that fed on a sheep's placenta
is dripping blood traces in the fold –
his guilty, hesitant steps and bloody jowls
nose color back into the pale complexion
of this ashen, anaemic evening.
Why did I return to this – I followed
vanishing footprints only to find
they were wolves’ tracking me –
now the howls I hear are my own
inside this prison of snow and ice.