I imagine winter returning as if woken from a dream,
clambering from the iced rabbit-hole of the field,
open-mouthed. The sound it makes coming home
knee-deep in the night, its slow feet, the numb toes.
I listen for the pain in the white shins of the birches,
splinter-trees charred by cold, limbs creaking.
What is the sound of winter? Bark dropping wetly
beneath the laid-down lace of the snow.
And where does it go? To the scales of the fish
which are its sequins, to the frost-skin of the pond
where it grows itself, to the branches of the water
in which it sits, spinning its own white body.
Seán Hewitt, born 1990, is a PhD student at the Institute of Irish Studies, University of Liverpool. He read English at Girton College, Cambridge.
His poems have appeared in Manchester Review, POETRY, The Poetry Review, PN Review and Poetry Ireland Review.