First Hoar

First Hoar

On every blade of bent rough grass
The frost will form like crushed new glass,
And while we sleep, shift warm in bed,
The icy night will chill and pass.

The grey pink dawn has strokes of red,
The fog is fire with clouded thread,
The waxy laurel waits the last,
While frosted larch her needles shed.

Our hollow car we window scratch,
The sugared roofs have mossy thatch,
The slate beneath is cold and still,
My bones feel stony dull to match.

I stretch my view across the hill,
The yellow light and window sill,
A smooth clear glass with metal catch,
Wish weatherproof I never will.