Snowbones are what is left
When Spring warmth melts the snow body
So earth becomes a gibbeted giant.
Like badly-kept secrets
Snowbones are scattered across moorland
Or dashed along hedgerows,
The rearguard of winter’s army.
Seen from above,
The eye, obsessive and patterning,
Makes sense of their nonsense,
Fleshes out the skeleton
And clicks the camera
In a revelation of Christ.
To the treasure hunter, snowbones are clues,
White arrows in a wasteland,
Indications that warmth is unwelcome,
Bones which must be picked with care,
Serving at once to delude and deliver.
To rooks and crows, gauntly flapping winter rags,
They are flesh traps and backdrops:
A sheep’s eye,
A frozen rabbit gut, rich reward.
Snowbones were winter’s remains
According to the ancients.
Ah the randomness of thaw
From which men struggle for meaning;
Like making sense of the night
By the translation of dreaming.