The Joy of Winter

Perfection of the bare trees, identity
stamped upon the branching plumes of twigs,
waved, straight or twisted: every silhouette

an icon. These are the shapes of oaks, a line
of poplars, elms: across the darkling wood
the rooks. This is the joy of winter, cold

clear sky, the wide, stern silence of the fields,
the old year's emptiness and on the stiff
and leafless branches harsh, dark voices cawing.