The ink-black rook skimmed the harbour wall

And in the nearly light of morning gave its harsh call

Dropping to the tide-bound rocks below

Town lights ruffled their lines on settled water

Curves, waves, streaks, cast by glittering gaudy

And reflecting the village image in refracted light

The distant headland grey and mysterious

Reached around the bay, enclosing, securing

A safe haven.

A sky striated by cirrus curved overhead

As if the village were captured in a glass bauble

One shake would tumble its contents,

So water, air and light would say, In this precious globe

Here is Winter.

Helene McKenna,

Saundersfoot