Drawing in

Drawing in

Cold draws them closer
than they would like,
birds the daytime
after scattered seed,

night the fox, the cat,
stealthy round the barn;
where food bowls wait,
round and full,

by the door, where oak leaves
pile beneath the roses,
deer that scrape
the brown drifts,

where the water
runs swift and shallow,
or lies muddy among the vines,
rooting pigs,

and at the window,
closing shutters
on the night’s ice-crystal
breath, the stars.