Towards Nether Stowey

A trail of smoke
hangs in the air like a flag,

a poem hung suspended
on pins of ice
and clouded breath
in crystalline air,

the clouds of hair
around our faces,
traces of conversation
that smudge and scatter
droplets, like snowmelt,

grass crushed like glass,
ground hard as nails.

A cloud, cresting hills
towards Nether Stowey
is where the magic happens,
in fractions of tiny seconds
of heart to hand
and mind to mouth,

a ghost of a chance
to shine, then gone,
and we move on.