Each day now grows one minute lighter
and the woodpecker climbs a dying trunk,
probes for weaknesses, no time to rest.
In creviced bark his chisel bill is sunk,
repeated stabs making splinters fly:
each tree is a door if you use your head.
The splash of scarlet unmasks my eye.
Though risen late, I’m clearing wreckage;
each wind-torn pole gets sawn for fire logs.
Pause. Look up. Read the pied message.
Its narrow tongue digs insects out, which lurk
unseen, beneath each flake of timber skin.
Sunshine, still low-angled, warms our woodwork.
This turning year is none the wiser
that each spent day is one day fewer.
i . 2018
