Winter Landscape by Maurice Devitt

Winter Landscape

She had just finished knitting
the cat when it escaped, black
fur shredded against
the driving snow. The night

was cold enough to make
a butcher shiver, hands
fingerless fitted snugly
into gloves. She grabbed

her coat but it resisted,
sleeves clinging desperately
to a hat-stand. The trail
of paw-prints was cold

and diverged in two directions
as though she had missed
a stitch. She rolled one set
into a ball and followed

the other into a forest, trees
huddled closer than their
shadows, branches stroking
beards of snow. She expected

a house, there was always
a house but no, a lake
the size of a mirror
and on the ice an empty bobbin.

 

The seventh son of a seventh son, Maurice Devitt was abandoned by his evil stepmother and raised in the forest by a poet.

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