winking with frost,
has smothered all.
Winter’s sharp fingers
pierce my flesh
and my mouth is a broken,
rusted gate.
I feel the soft warmth of fire
you lie beside,
and see you cradling your
kicking stomach.
But glass wind surrounds me,
breath bleeds from my lungs.
Each wet
step sinks
beneath
the bone-white
surface
and cold draws me
nearer,
whispering sleep
in my ear.
Then a faint thud thud
numbs the
silence,
though.
It
grows
thud thud
it
grows.
A blinkered shire horse
emerges,
trudging
alone,
slowly.
Its leather harness
sags behind,
scraping the floor
as it
clears a path.
Its mane twitches
like long grass,
its muscles,
like pistons,
judder as I reach
out,
and,
as
I follow behind,
the wind still
rages
and the cold still
pinches
but something
swells
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