Mid winter midnight.
Air sharp with ice,
A line of petrified bare branched trees
still against the toxic glow of distant city lights.
Blades of grass captured and held erect
by sudden frost.
Overhead, a black sky full of holes,
punctured by a million stars.
House is full of sleep.
Kids in fleecy PJ's curled around hot water bottles.
Cats prostrate by the glowing grate.
The quiet, gently punctuated by the soft snores of the dog at my feet.
The clackety clack of my fingers on the keyboard.
A joist settles,
A pipe gurgles.
Comforting sounds of home.
And now a family of foxes in the field beyond begin their other-wordly cry,
Their screeches tearing a hold in the still night.
Dermot Healy International Poetry Award
1 day ago